


Christmas Lost and Found: A Tale of Christmas Fairs, Christmas Madness, Christmas Carols, Mistletoes, and a Bit of Fluff

by WackyGoofball



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ... also I think the title is stupid but I tried, Christmas, Christmas Caroling, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, F/M, JB Secret Santa, Long Shot, Mistletoe, Secret Santa Fic, So much Christmas..., for that it got PRETTY long, lots of liberties were taken in the depiction of secondary characters, only allusions to "le smut" because I am unable okay?, red ronnet is a dick and will forever be a dick, well - considering that this was first intended as a 8k word something fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-08 22:53:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 43,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8866597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WackyGoofball/pseuds/WackyGoofball
Summary: It's this time of the year again, the night before Christmas - and Brienne finds herself stuck on the annual business trip to King’s Landing’s Winter Wonderland, a Christmas Market, though she is anything but in a festive mood, for more than one reason. The fact that the Christmas fair proves to be a celebration of artificial Christmas spirit, eggnog, and kitsch does nothing much to help. Things take a different turn when she finds herself stuck even deeper in Christmas Hell - with co-worker and notorious teaser Jaime Lannister, who hates Christmas with a burning passion, and just won't leave her alone. And the Christmas spiral just keeps going down and down once the team decides that it's high time for a Christmas Party, when our two protagonists want nothing but out. Will they manage? What will become of Christmas? And what do Christmas carols, a mistletoe, and fluff have to do with it?Read to find out.





	1. Of Christmas Fairs, Mead, and Christmas Carols

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DanyelN](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanyelN/gifts).



> Hello everyone - and a merry Christmas for y'all in advance! 
> 
> This was written as part of the Secret Santa challenge hosted at JBO. I was granted the honor to write for DanyelN, who gave me the following three prompt words to incorporate into my story: 
> 
> Carols, mistletoe, and fluff. 
> 
> The story got *quite* a bit longer than I had first anticipated, so here we are... at the end of this curious ride I didn't know I was on until I stood at the end, glancing back down on the Christmas madness I thereby created. 
> 
> The story goes unbeta'd, all mistakes are my precious little pests. I am still no native, though I working on it, LOL. 
> 
> What is there left to say...?
> 
> Oh, right, I hope you'll enjoy! ♥♥♥

Brienne sighs as she glances up at the wooden sign above her head that she supposes is meant to point her personal version of the Seven Hells.

**_King’s Landing’s Winter Wonderland_ **

Just who in the Seven Hells had come to that idea? A _business trip_ to a _Christmas fair_ , with everyone from Lannister Corp., safe for Tywin Lannister, CEO of the company, who’d likely rather die than attend such a get-together, though Brienne understands the man in that regard more than well – and secretly envies him for getting the easy way out of the ordeal she knows she will have to suffer through no matter what.

Wherever she looks, she sees artificial snow, stands made look antique with almost comic-like architectures and from the looks of it, made of press board instead of actual, solid wood, people hired to run around in elf costumes with hooped socks and obviously fake pointy ears, some Christmas song blaring over a loudspeaker not very well hidden in a large fir tree, red, green, and white lights dancing along the electric cords stretching high above one’s head, and the smell of eggnog, scented candles, plastic-wrapped cookies, and artificial pine odor lie in the air.

_What a Merry Christmas that is…_

And now she is in the middle of this absurdity, the night before Christmas, and there is no way out of this mess. She has to come along because it’s a business trip, and she couldn’t find a passable excuse not to be there. And so here Brienne is, feeling like she is back in high school.

Needless to mention that she hated high school.

Because, apparently, life is just a large version of high school. The “cool kids” hang around and get drunk on eggnog or buttered rum with cinnamon flavor, laughing as they hog around the burning barrels with chapped Christmas décor painted on the sides, while those “unworthy” will awkwardly either get together with people they barely know to escape the pain of being alone in this ordeal, or venture around the small market to feign interest in the clubber set out on the stands claimed to be local and hand-made, when a glance to the back will most certainly confirm that this was apparently _Made in Meereen_.

Suffice to say that Brienne rather walks around this _Merry Purgatory_ on her own. If possible, she will always give those “cool kids” a wide, _very_ wide berth. She knows at least some of them to be certain that she wants nothing to do with them.

“Is there anything you like, ma’am?” the young girl behind the counter asks, flashing a fake if gentle smile. Brienne looks up, twisting one rather and surprisingly beautifully crafted woodcarvings in her hand, a medallion with a carved tree and a falling star, a small, if likely fake, blue gemstone sitting at the top, remining her of the blue of Tarth’s waters, earning it its byname of the Sapphire Isle.

She puts it down again – because Brienne never buys such things for herself. She never wears jewelry in the first place. Her Septa told her often enough how ridiculous she looks if she tries to look too girlish. Brienne snaps her attention back to another woodcarving in the men’s section, not wanting to think back to those “lessons”.

“Do you do personal engravings, too?” Brienne asks.

“Yes, ma’am. If you want this to be engraved, you can just put down your message here and my colleague will add it in the back. It’d only take a few minutes.”

“Alright, then I will take this one, thank you,” Brienne says, handing the woman the oval-shaped amulet of her choosing, with engraved waves and a banner that looks surprisingly much like Tarth’s, getting a notepad and pen in exchange. Brienne leans down to put down the message, doing her best to write as clearly as possible so that the colleague doesn’t change “love” to “dove” or “Father” to “Flutter”. She had that a few times already.

Once Brienne is satisfied with the result, she hands the pad back over to the brunet girl. “I hope that’s readable?”

“Oh yes, that should work. I will be right back.”

“Thank you.”

“Late Christmas shopping?” a male voice rings out to her left. Brienne whirls around to see Jaime Lannister standing next to her, casually leaning on the counter with his forearms, looking way too good in bordeaux woolen coat and a beanie where the front hairs stand up in all kinds of directions, but still in all the right ways.

Tywin Lannister’s oldest son, likely to inherit his position once the head of the Lannister clan is to retire as CEO.

_And apparently, a pain in the ass._

At least to Brienne.

That man makes a sport of it to tease her, calling her “wench” all the while, enjoying her squirming, her scolding, her blushing when he found yet another weak spot to assault without abandon.

But also a good worker who isn’t just there because his daddy owns the firm. While that surely made things easier for him to get a position, Jaime works very hard and has apparently pretty high standards that others often mistake with arrogance or being bossy, when in fact he only demands from others what he demands from himself.

“I just found it’d be a nice extra to add to the one I have,” Brienne replies stiffly, not even daring to look at him. Somehow, seeing him outside the workplace is ever the more awkward than interacting with him while within.

She had that experience once while in the parking lot, back during summer.

She was just about to drive off with her motorcycle when she saw Jaime throwing a tantrum in front of his car as it made sounds as though it was gurgling. At first Brienne just wanted to ride off, reckoning that Jaime would have a mechanic at his disposal within mere minutes, but then found herself walking over anyway, out of politeness already.

“Everything alright here?”

“Apparently _not_. You know, I used to have an older model without the technical toys and it worked without issue for _years_. Now I got this new, fancy car and it’s driving me insane because something is always broken, has technical difficulties, or just wants to make me mad! I am apparently a regular at my mechanic’s.”

“Well, the car salesman who recommended you the _King Robert’s Hammer_ is a jackass. That one may look fancy from the outside, but the inside is pretty much… crap,” Brienne replied, wrinkling her nose. “If you want a solid but still rather fancy car, you should consider a _Lionstar_. Very endurable those ones. They come with less extras, but still enough to have some over-the-top technical accessory to show around, but a better engine and even better exhaust values. Needless to mention that this one, to my knowledge, doesn't sound like throwing up… as does this one right at this moment.”

“ _Lionstar_? Why didn’t I think of that sooner? The name’s too fitting for a Lannister…,” he chuckled, but then frowned at her, his lips curling into a small smile. “You know a lot about that.”

“Not really. I just read up on those things before purchasing a car in advance so the salesman doesn’t get to cheat on me so easily. I am more into motorcycles.”

“So, does that mean you are one of those hobby mechanics running around in blue overall with oil stains all over?” he asked, and that was the first time she heard a shift in his voice, because it was joking, but not in a _mean_ way. His voice was soft and… apparently interested in what she had to say.

_A complete novelty._

“I only do if I have to. Normally, I rather give it to a mechanic.”

“Well, unless you know a magic trick to _un_ -gurgle this thing, I either call the mechanic for the umpteenth time to get the car and fix it, or I just follow through with your suggestion and get myself a new one right now. I reckon that’d save me some trouble in the future.”

“I can have a look at it,” she found herself suggesting before she could even think. And yet again, his surprised smile was anything but what it was so long they were inside the building.

The fact that she felt heat in her cheeks not coming from the hot summer air proved her point. This was new, anything but what it was while they were at work.

“If you fix it, I will be forever indebted to you.”

Brienne got off her motorcycle, then, leaving the helmet dangling over one of the grips to take a look at the engine, leaning over the machinery to get a first impression, grimacing at the hot air pressing against the flat of her taut stomach once some creeped underneath her shirt to the exposed skin there.

“So? Any chance for this fellow or do I have to give him the gift of mercy?” Jaime asked.

“I’d _recommend_ you give it the gift of mercy, but…,” Brienne said, leaning further down to get to the part in question, her fingers dancing over the dirty, dusty parts as she tried to figure out what to do. “Try to start the engine another time.”

Jaime promptly did and the car stopped gurgling to roar instead.

“Always the electronic ignition switches with this one,” Brienne said, shaking her head as she closed the hood again.

“You are my savior today, wench!” Jaime called out happily as he exited, and that was the first time Brienne felt like he didn’t mean it as an insult.

“No problem,” she replied, rubbing her dirty hands. “I’d still see a mechanic about this soon, or just get a new car, though. I reckon money won’t be the problem.”

“That is apparently one of those luxuries I come to enjoy, yeah,” he agrees.

“In any case, you should be able to drive home now.”

“For which I owe you my thanks.”

“It's nothing.”

“Wait, here,” he said, handing her a towel from his sports bag, she supposed. “For the hands.”

“It’s alright, you don’t have to soil the towel for it,” Brienne argued. “With the fancy golden, embroidered initials.”

“I have a whole bunch of these,” Jaime chuckled. “You can keep that one. The least I can do to pay back for the trouble.”

“Oh, ugh… I didn’t… I should be on my way,” Brienne stuttered, rubbing her hands on the towel absently.

“As should I be. Then I guess we’ll see each other tomorrow, for the project.”

“Yes, yes.”

“Thanks another time, Brienne,” he said before getting into the car as Brienne got back on her motorcycle and drove away quickly. Two days later, Jaime drove into the parking lot with a brand-new _Lionstar_ , sporting the biggest of smiles once he saw Brienne’s eyes on the vehicle, winking at her.

Back in the parking lot when she fixed the car, that was the first time Brienne heard him call her by her first name, and for some reason, it’d given her goosebumps back then. But that was the one time she realized that Jaime out of work seemed to be a whole lot different from inside work, and for reasons beyond her, it still made her uncomfortable. Because she is so used to being exposed to work-Jaime that she can’t even fathom him to be any other way but this snarky bastard.

“Then you are one step further with your Christmas shopping than I,” Brienne heard Jaime’s voice echoing in her brain, coaxing her away from the images of the parking lot back to the reality of Christmas Hell powered by the _King’s Landing Club for Maintaining Regional Traditions_ … or so.

Normally, Brienne simply would abort mission at this point and go for the next stand to escape conversation with the handsome but arrogant Lannister son, but she just ordered the engraving and still has to pay for it, so… she is stuck. With Jaime Lannister.

And the way Brienne guesses, he is well aware of just that circumstance, as casually as he leans against the stand, his back to the items to display, elbows resting on the green felt topping upon which the woodcarvings lie.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how many I am still missing?” he goes on when she doesn't reply.

“It’s not my business how many Christmas presents you already have or still have to get, Mr. Lannister,” Brienne replies stiffly. His green eyes shift to her at once, sharp, piercing, but with a twinkle in them.

“Jaime, just Jaime. I thought that after working together for such a long time, we’d finally be on first-name basis?

 _Does “wench” count as first-name basis according to him_? she wonders.

“ _Jaime_ , then,” Brienne says after a long moment, to which the man with golden mane hidden beneath a beanie does nothing much but chuckle softly.

 _Just how long does that engraving take_?

“I like the way you say my name,” he says with a grin Brienne fails to read, though she supposes it to be some sort of dirty joke she just doesn’t get because she doesn’t care about those kinds of japes. She’s had enough back during high school.

“ _In any case_ – since you seem eager to share that information: How many presents you are still missing?” Brienne then asks, hoping that this will keep him occupied long enough so she can pay and make a run for it, right past the plastic Santa singing “Ho-ho-ho” and turning his head in a fashion that reminds Brienne more of one of those horror movies where the dolls and puppets come to life and kill the characters off, against all rules of physics or logic.

“Two out of three, as for big ones. The others just get the usual random shit you give to distant relatives. Coupons for spas, fancy boxes of chocolates and Dornish plums, and something colorful and noisy for the kids, just to annoy the parents.”

“Well, only two missing is… not the almost bad.”

“You wouldn’t know how wrong that statement is with regards to my case,” he huffs with a grin.

“How so.”

“Because I happen to be born into a family of riches, which has its merits, of course, but also its downsides. For instance, it’s incredibly hard to find gifts for people who can buy themselves whatever the hell they want. That makes the whole business of Christmas gifts a whole lot more pointless than it is anyway. Couple that with having to come up with presents for someone who enjoys… _nothing_ but his own family empire and the fact that there is money and power for him to hold, and a know-it-all little brother who you can always give a bottle of wine to, but that being about as personal as those Office Secret Santa presents you buy one day before deadline.”

Brienne can’t help the small chuckle at that.

“What now? Are you laughing at my luxury problems? How dare you?” he jokes.

“No, that is… I am aware of that circumstance. I actually get that… as a Tarth. It’s just that I am surprised that you…”

“Love to hate that whole Christmas fuss? Yeah, one should think that a family as hellbent on tradition as mine would have more Christmas Spirit to toss into the genetic pool, but not with this one,” he says, pointing at himself.

“… Then why are you even here?” Brienne can’t help but ask. “I mean… you are in a position where you can… just do however you please. Your father owns the company.”

“I am aware, but the funny thing is that this forces me into actions more often than it’d do the normal employee. Father has these things organized to keep up the team spirit. While he gives less than a rat’s shit on it, he knows that this leads to better results. A strong team is a good team. It’s math, plain and simple. At the same time, it’d leave a bad impression if none of the Lannister clan showed up to at least transmit the feeling that the upper tier apparently gives a damn on this thing and therefore on the team. Therefore, the likes of me will be required to show up if Father says so.”

Brienne frowns. She never thought about it like that, upon reflection.

“And normally, I get around it because my brother enjoys eggnog and the general range of alcoholic beverages you are served here, but…”

“ _But_?”

“Short version or long version?”

“Moderate version?” she suggests.

“The _moderate_ version: This year, neither one of us wanted to go. He said he had other plans. So, we followed through with our old game. Drawing lots. We have a very… _specific_ system since childhood actually. Normally, I always end up winning because… I cheat. The thing is that I didn’t realize that my brother saw through it before, so he let me believe that I was going to win when in fact he tricked me… and now I am here, watching Frosty the Snowman sweating in that ridiculous costumes… I mean, look at that poor guy!” Jaime says, pointing at the man walking them by in this ridiculously big snowman costume, probably praying for the ordeal to be over before he dies of a heatstroke – and that during winter.

“Well, maybe you can use the opportunity to do some Christmas shopping?”

“As though I was going to find something usable between _Made in Meereen_ and _Made in Yunkai_ – for someone the likes of Tywin Lannister.”

Brienne opens her mouth in reply, but that is when the brunet resurfaces with the amulet in hand.

“Sorry it took a bit longer, but our machine was giving us a bit of a trouble.”

“Oh, no problem, thank you.”

“Is everything according to your wishes, ma’am?” she asks.

Brienne inspects the engraving on the back another time. “It’s perfect, thank you.”

“Shall I wrap it for you? That’d be another two groats extra, though?”

“Yeah, uhm, if you were so kind. I am not really good at this.”

“Alright. I will be right back.”

Brienne frowns as the girl whooshes off again. Apparently, everything seems to be in the back of that thing.

“Where were we?” Jaime asks, snapping her attention back to him at once. “I think you were about to tell me about what fine thing here to find to gift to great Tywin Lannister, the man who has no hobbies or personal interests.”

“Did you ever consider a wax seal kit with your family emblem?”

Jaime looks at her as though she just said the most outrageous thing on Planetos.

“I mean… sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

“No, no, wait, wait. I like that idea. A lot,” he argues hurriedly.

“You do? Well, my father loved it, that’s what I can say for certain. He enjoys those old-fashioned things that remind of the earlier times. He is so very proud of the Tarth ancestry. So, anything relating to House Tarth gets him really excited.”

“It appears that our Fathers think alike, then,” Jaime chuckles. “The Lannister Empire is one of history. That idea is really good, actually. _Thank you_. I will see about that. I reckon some phone calls should make it happen even within a short amount of time.”

“Well, if I had one now, I’d raise my glass to the luxuries your name comes with, then,” Brienne replies, waving with her gloved hand.

“Well, we can get ourselves a drink once you got your present wrapped?” he suggests. Brienne can’t help but frown again.

_Is he just being polite?_

Does he want to repay her for the present suggestion? Or does he _seriously_ want to stand her a drink because he wants to go on talking – with her?

Why does this man have to act differently from the businessman she knows from the office? That one Brienne knows how to ignore, but the man in front of her? She doesn’t know how to ignore him.

“… Under one condition, though,” Brienne finds herself say.

“Which would be?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow at her.

“We have to take a stand where there isn’t a mob of our own team.”

“My, my, is it that you don’t get along with them, wench?”

“I can work with them. That doesn’t mean I have to sing songs out of tune over some eggnog as they try to hit on each other. No thanks.”

“Oh, true, Tyrion always says that those trips to the Christmas Market are a _Snog and Grope Market_ once all had enough grog, eggnog, and mulled wine.”

“You have no idea,” Brienne huffs. “There are some things I still want to unsee.”

“Like what?” he asks, the grin spreading across his lips like that of the Cheshire Cat.

“No way in the Seven Hells will I tell you that,” Brienne argues, shaking her head.

“Why not?”

“Why would I?”

“C’mon, one thing. This is a lot more interesting than office gossip!” he insists.

“No.”

“Wench, you can’t just tease me like that and then leave me hanging here, I am…”

“Done! Here is your present!”

“Thank you _so_ much,” Brienne says in an overtly loud voice, much to Jaime’s disappointment and silent-not-so-silent protest as he keeps muttering to himself. She gives the girl a nice tip for the now green-white striped present with red bow on top. It looks passable enough. Into a brown paper bag with a Christmas tree it goes.

“Have a nice evening, you two!” the brunet calls out as Brienne starts to walk away, only to have Jaime on her heels.

_You two?_

“So now, about what you want to unsee…,” he goes on.

That guy apparently wants to keep talking to her. Brienne blinks twice, thrice.

“I already said that I will not share personal information of one my colleagues with…,” Brienne means to say, but Jaime interrupts her. “I am not your boss.”

“You are higher in the ranking than me, and likely will be my boss one day,” she corrects him.

“Nah, I reckon spite and arrogance will contain my Father’s body for a good hundred years until I have the _honor_. You can just as well consider me a colleague all the same. I thought we actually agreed on that, as much as you fight me.”

“Fight you? You fight me,” Brienne insists.

“I tease, you fight back as though the War of the Five Kings flared up anew,” he tells her. “Which is all sorts of hilarious and endearing.”

_Endearing?_

That is most definitely a term Brienne _never_ heard in relation to herself.

 _Endearing_.

“Well, in case it has not occurred to you, not always does what you say come across as teasing alone,” Brienne finds herself say before she can even think it through. “… I… shouldn’t have said that.”

“I already said, we are here unofficially, as private people. So, we can speak openly all the same. Seven Hells, if I get to tell you about cheating my younger brother, you can tell me… something I will have to elaborate on a bit more.”

Brienne grimaces at him.

“So, what do you mean by that, Brienne?” he asks again. The way he says her name all of a sudden makes the fine hairs in her neck stand upright, rubbing against the wool of her scarf.

“Well… _unofficially_ , privately… you seem to think that this is all teasing, but you make a pattern of it to argue and tease _only me_ , daily, to provoke me to anger all the while. So, to me the question I ask myself at this moment is why, by the Seven, you bother to talk to a woman you apparently don’t like to be around with _at all_?”

“Who’s ever said that I don’t like being around you?” He makes a face.

“ _Wench, you are annoying. Wench, just leave me the Seven Hells alone. Wench, has anyone ever told you that you are as boring as you are ugly? Wench, knock off the frowning, that makes you even uglier. Wench_ …,” Brienne rambles, imitating his voice slightly, feeling heat rise to her cheeks, which seem to burn against the cold outside.

She snaps her eyes to him, waiting for either a snarky reply, or for him to huff at her and be on his way again, but to her surprise, no shock is the more accurate description, he stands still, his eyes seeming unnaturally large, his expression one of… surprise… shock… as well?

Brienne tilts her head to the side ever so slightly.

_He is mulling the information over!_

Another few moments pass between them, until he slowly starts to nod his head.

“I always thought it was clear that I was just out for friendly banter,” he says, his voice… apologetic.

Jaime Lannister – _apologetic_.

Brienne knows she had nothing alcoholic tonight, but it feels like she had one too many eggnogs already.

“It… doesn't always come across that way.”

He sighs.

“I really have to work on my people-skills,” Jaime concludes. “So, uhm, to clarify that… _misunderstanding_ : I tease people I enjoy talking to. That is how I talk to anyone whom I… know a bit better, on a personal level, or family. I don’t talk to most other employees that way because I don’t know them, have no intention of getting to know them, and therefore showing them the smooth Lannister talk is enough. But with you… bantering with you is just too much fun. I thought that was clear. I apologize if… that made you feel bad about yourself. You see, a bad mouth is something Lannisters are born with. Rarely do we realize if we are across the line.”

Brienne can do nothing but stare at him at this point.

He means that.

_How did that happen?_

_How is **any** of this happening? _

“It’s nothing, it’s just…”

“Well, it’s not nothing if you think that I hate you, because that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

“O… kay,” she replies slowly.

“Well, that _really_ means I owe you a drink now,” Jaime snorts, offering a warm smile. Brienne almost wants to jump when she feels his hand pressing against her shoulder to make her move forward, but her body simply moves along.

_This truly is a Christmas Business Trip right to the Seven Hells._

Eventually, Brienne finds herself standing by a wooden bar table outside one of the stands, waiting for Jaime to come back with something to drink.

She is about to have a drink with Jaime Lannister.

Brienne glances up into the dark sky. If the Seven show up in the sky, she knows the apocalypse is near. This is simply a thing of impossibility. Yet, here she stands, rubbing her gloved hands against the cold, next to a rather robust guy with a ridiculous Christmas-Tree-hat with lights and music, trying to make what Brienne assumes is his son in the buggy, pulled back and forth by a petite woman with brown hair and eyes, laugh at the funny hat.

“Little Sam doesn’t like that hat, I think.”

“I read in a book on parenting that…”

Brienne shakes her head as she lets her glance wander about this place another time. The artificiality of it makes her shudder, and not just from the cold.

While it shouldn’t be so, the fact that Jaime seems to be against Christmas as much as she makes her feel a bit better about herself hating that whole fuss.

And as if on cue, Jaime waltzes his way past the people wanting to get something to drink as well, over to her, with two mugs in hand.

“There you go. Mead, like back in the old days,” Jaime chuckles. “I quite like that.”

Brienne takes the mug from him gratefully, enclosing it with both her palms to feel the heat seeping through her gloves right to her skin.

“Thank you.”

“Well, then I’d say… cheers to yet another year of feeding the present and Christmas decoration industry with our money?” he suggests.

“Cheers,” Brienne snorts, clinking her mug against his before taking a sip. The mead is actually quite decent.

“Not the almost bad,” Jaime comments. “Though I guess anything warm against the cold tastes heavenly now.”

“True.”

Jaime leans on the bar table a bit more to draw closer to her. Brienne feels the urge to coil back, but then stays put.

“So now, the things you want to unsee…”

“No.”

He throws his head back before focusing his intense gaze back on her. “Why _not_? C’mon, I have to suffer through this alongside you, the least you could do is grant me the pleasure of sniggering at those little pests for another good reason that they don’t know that I know.”

“They are no pests.”

“Oh really? Which is why you want to stay the hell away from them?” he huffs.

Brienne narrows her eyes at him. “You won’t shut up about it until I give you something, huh?”

“You know me too well, wench.”

Brienne licks her lips before taking another swig of the mead. “But this stays between us two.”

“ _Of course_. If there is one thing I am good at, then it is keeping secrets. That, and good looks. I am really good at looking good, not meaning to sound arrogant, it’s just a plain matter of fact.”

Brienne tilts her head to the side with a huff. “Are you done yet musing about yourself, or do you need a mirror and some time alone with yourself?”

“If that means you tell me, then yes, totally done!” Jaime says with a way too charming smile.

“… _Fine_ , so last year, we went to the Christmas Market in Rosby, Gods know why. That meant apparently a bus trip for us all the way to Rosby. Which is not a good thing once you have to ride back with a bunch of drunken employees, you might be able to imagine.”

“Obviously. I reckon the smell’s also… _not good_.”

“Unless you like to ride in a distillery.”

“My brother had the time of his life, then,” Jaime chuckles.

“I suppose. He seemed pretty happy for all I remember,” Brienne says, rolling her broad shoulders.

“But it’s not about my brother, is it?” He makes a face.

“If it were, wouldn’t you want to know anymore?” Brienne questions.

“ _Apparently_. I _know_ my brother has sex, _lots_ of sex, but I don’t want all the details. I’ve had to play wingman for that guy often enough,” Jaime replies.

“It’s not about your brother.”

“Thank the Seven!”

“So anyway, most of the colleagues spent… every minute in Rosby getting drunk.”

“Naturally.”

“I wanted to buy some cookies and pastries, as a last-minute present. So, when I came back to the group some time later that evening, once I was done… Well, how to describe this…? Alright, so I helped myself to some eggnog, wandered around a bit, _enjoying_ the artificiality if the fake snow and houses, until I came to the back of the faux house. Only to see Lysa Tully having her _fun time_ with one of the employees of the stand, some ginger I thought could well have been a Wildling if he was born back in the day.”

“Well, that’s scandalous for sure, but not too scarring for life, is it?” Jaime huffs.

“You’d have _no_ idea. They just kept pouring eggnog over each other to suck it off, while still halfway clothed, and you can imagine what a sticky mess she was once we got back to the bus. If I heard correctly, she asked him to _milk_ her. And the only question I could ask myself was if the guy… continued to serve… _that_ certain eggnog, you understand? From that barrel they used… for _pleasure_.”

Jaime makes a face, but then can’t help laughing out loud. “You tossed that mug of eggnog away, didn’t you?”

“Halfway across the market,” Brienne confirms, nodding erratically. “Look, I don’t care for what they do in their homes, but there were children there. _C’mon_.”

“Yeah, I agree. I mean, snogging is fine, but that’s… _eggsnogging_ seems a bit over the top.”

“Gladly, we never went to Rosby again. I guess Lysa is still heartbroken because of that. Also, that same night, we got back to the bus, only to have employees fucking each other so that the whole damn thing juggled back and forth.”

“You are kidding me, right? Who?” Jaime snickers.

“You asked for what I wanted to unsee, not for _that_ part.”

“Oh, c’mon! Who now?”

Brienne takes another sip of her mead.

“I need details now!” he begs.

“You don’t want the details, trust me.”

“Oh, trust _me_ , I want all the dirty little details. That is better than TV – or this apparent poor excuse of a fair meant to celebrate Christmas,” Jaime argues, gesturing around.

“The fact that you want the details doesn’t mean you will get them,” Brienne replies.

“Do I have to tease it out of you?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow at her.

“You can try, but will fail.”

“Is that a challenge?” He grins.

“Not really.”

“Pity, I love a challenge.”

“I bet.”

Jaime opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by a group of singers in red costumes with fake white fur applications approaching, singing Christmas **Carols**.

_Jingle bells, jingle bells,_   
_Jingle all the way._   
_Oh! What fun it is to ride_   
_In a one-horse open sleigh._

“You seriously have to tell me that story now, wench,” Jaime keeps going anyway.

“I can’t hear you,” Brienne calls out loudly, though both know it a lie at once.

“You have to tell me the bit of who was in that bus and what else happened there.”

“Nope.”

“C’mon, you don’t want me begging, do you?”

“I don’t care. I already said too much.”

_Jingle bells, jingle bells,_   
_Jingle all the way._   
_Oh! What fun it is to ride_   
_In a one-horse open sleigh._

“You know, my brother and I always changed the lyrics of that song?” he says.

“To what?” Brienne makes a face.

“Not child-appropriate terms?”

“Seriously?” She knits her eyebrows.

“We were either drunk or children, so _yeah_ , seriously. Also, bobtail ring and Bob’s cock ring are just too close.”

“No, they are not.”

_What fun it is to ride and sing  
A sleighing song tonight!_

“ _What fun it is to ride and slide with a horny maid tonight_.”

“Stop that!”

 _A day or two ago  
I thought I'd take a ride  
And soon, Miss Fanny Bright_  
_Was seated by my side,_  
The horse was lean and lank

“ _And soon, Miss Lady Knight was seated in my lap, the cock was lean_ _and_ …,” Jaime goes on, but Brienne cuts him off harshly. “I will stop you right there.”

“Only if you tell me about that bus incident,” he argues with a smug grin on his lips.

“No.”

“I can also tell you the renewed chorus, you know, with _jingling bells_ , this is almost too easy.”

“Hyle. Asha. Xaro Xhoan Doxas,” Brienne says in a flat voice.

“A threesome? That’s the whole issue?”

“ _No_ , the guys _thought_ it’d be a threesome. Asha played them both… so they, you know, kissed… and _some more_ … while she watched. A challenge or so. She actually took pictures and laughed her ass off once we came to the bus and caught them in the act. Small wonder Xaro requested to be sent back to Qarth the very next day.”

“That’s why he left? How do I not know this?” Jaime gapes.

“Because that is information one doesn’t share with someone working above you.”

“But that is fun!”

“It was no fun riding back in that same bus,” Brienne huffs, shuddering as the images of Rosby’s Christmas Hell come back to her mind.

Those images won’t ever leave her in a lifetime again.

“Talk about the smells,” Jaime huffs, making a face.

“Talk about the smells,” she agrees.

_Silent night, holy night,_   
_All is calm, all is bright_   
_Round yon virgin mother and child._   
_Holy infant, so tender and mild,_   
_Sleep in heavenly peace,_   
_Sleep in heavenly peace._

“For that you don’t like them, you are still rather loyal.”

“And isn’t it that I just broke my oaths by telling you?”

“Nah, as I said, I won’t share that information. It’s both traumatizing and precious.”

“You have no idea.”

“I guess having the visuals is worse,” Jaime says with a pang of sympathy.

“By far,” Brienne huffs.

“Cheers to that?” Jaime suggests, taking up his mug of mead. Brienne clinks her mug against his before downing the last bit of sweet honey wine, enjoying the rather pleasant hum inside her head.

“Though I can’t help but wonder,” he goes on. She looks at him. “Yes?”

“I thought you’d be one of those Christmas enthusiasts. You know, you seem to be a woman of the old values, or so I understood.”

“That is… true, I suppose,” she replies slowly.

“Well, so where did you leave your Christmas spirit, other than at Rosby?”

“At home.”

“No kidding.”

“No, I mean back home, on Tarth,” she explains.

“Ahhh, holiday blues, then.”

“Not really.”

“What? Aren’t you going to visit? I thought you do that every year,” Jaime argues. He heard about that often enough around the office.

“I normally do, but not this year.”

“How comes?” he asks.

“My Father won’t be on Tarth this Christmas. He is visiting distant family at Dragonstone. He is very eager about our apparent Targaryen heritage dating far, _far_ back. So that’s what made him come up with the idea.”

“And why don't _you_ go to Drgaonstone?”

“Because I hate family get-togethers with people I don’t even know, because to me, Christmas is linked to Tarth, not Dragonstone, and because… doesn’t matter.” She shakes her head.

_This is getting way too personal already anyway._

_Damn that mead, loosening up her tongue like that._

“As to family dinners, I can totally relate. Those are nothing but empty and forced.”

“Had he invited them to Tarth, no bother, but for me… Tarth is… it’s _the place_ , you see. But being there on my own is not the same either. I told him that I will come later on, for New Year’s Eve the latest. We arranged it like that…,” she explains, her voice growing soft towards the end, and Jaime adds, “Just that you are not happy about that.”

“I am happy so long he is happy. And he is.”

“I reckon he ain’t because you aren’t there,” he argues.

“This is not the first Christmas we spend apart.”

“Is it that you and him had a fight?”

“No _fight_ , really. Just a _disagreement_. He was not pleased that I didn’t agree to reschedule to Dragonstone, after the idea came to his mind all of a sudden, like… a few days ago. You see, had he asked me earlier, then things _may_ be different, but like this… I was looking forward to Christmas on Tarth, not Dragonstone. And it might be selfish of me, but that made me shut down to the whole idea.”

“Oh, so you had actually planned to go there only for him to say, ‘hey, how about meeting random people at Dragonstone?’ Yeah. I do get that this… may have been a bit of a rush,” Jaime argues. And Brienne is not just surprised that he seems to understand her situation – but that he even bothers about it.

“You do?” She can’t help but frown. “I feel stupid for it, to tell the truth. It probably _is_ stupid, but it can’t be helped now. There’s going to be another Christmas next year, so that I can plan ahead to make sure that I am with my father there on that very day.”

“That sounds more like it. So, one throwaway-Christmas for the Maid of Tarth.”

“Not that name again,” Brienne growls.

She knows she is not pretty to look at, but she apparently had relationships, but for _some_ reason, rumor kept spreading around the office that she was still a virgin, developing that stupid nickname on tops of everything. While Maid is not the same as maiden, she knows, the implication was clear, especially once some certain guys started a bet on who’d be the one to “make her a true woman”, that is, to fuck her real hard for the very first time, wherever that logic comes from.

 _Yeah_ , Hyle Hunt got himself not just a bloody nose once she found out…

“I like medieval sounding nicknames,” Jaime says with a shrug.

“Such as wench?” she snorts dismissively.

“Why yes!” he argues, his face beaming up as though it was the nicest of pet names.

Brienne rolls her eyes. That guy is… she doesn’t know what that guy actually is, other than good-looking and too good company to be true, despite the ongoing teasing.

She finds herself interrupted by a girlish shriek as the bee hive seems to strike and very drunk, very red-cheeked, very smiling seem to appear out of nowhere and hover around Jaime as though he was a pot of honey, mead in his belly likely not being the reason for it, though.

“ _Ladies_ , what can I do for you?” Jaime asks in an easy voice.

Sometimes Brienne finds herself pathetically envying him for that. This way he has with going about people. He just always seems to fit in. He can talk to the guys of her department as though he worked with them daily. He can make the young women new to the office cross their legs as they stare at this Golden Man, he can make the toughest secretaries turn kittens once he leans over the counter to make them a compliment. Wherever he goes, he seems to have a place.

But Brienne? She never feels like fitting in, other than Tarth perhaps, and within the comfort of her own home. But that’s about it. In the office, she is glad to have her little cubicle, and some people she is on friendly-enough terms with so that she doesn’t have to sit alone during lunch. She is always that one thing that doesn’t belong, as though she was a puzzle piece from another puzzle.

But Jaime? Jaime is the final masterpiece to any puzzle out there, a uniform key to all locks to make them open wide.

And the pathetic part within her never wanting to come to light envies him for it. For not having that sort of trouble. For seeming almost weightless when Brienne feels nothing but clumsy from the weight wearing her down, the insecurity, the knowledge that this is just not her world.

_Silent night, holy night,_   
_Shepherds quake at the sight;_   
_Glories stream from heaven afar,_   
_Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia!_   
_Christ the Savior is born,_   
_Christ the Savior is born!_

Brienne cocks an eyebrow once Ami starts to stroke her leather-gloved hand over Jaime’s chest, though it’s little wonder coming from that woman, considering her nickname Gatehouse Ami, which she does seem to have for a more or less good reason. The other woman, Irri, took Jaime’s arm to wrap around her delicate shoulders, beaming at him brightly, and Lollys giggling like a young girl as she stares at the handsome man in front of her.

“So, Mr. Lannister.”

“Yes, Ami?” he mimics her tone. 

“We were thinking…,” she goes on, though Jaime interrupts her in a soft, teasing tone, “Will you just draw out every word you speak? Just so that I know?”

“Oh, no, no. I am just teasing you,” Ami giggles. “It’s just that we were wondering if you wanted to come along. Some of us have decided to go to Oberyn’s house once we leave the Christmas Market, to celebrate some more, you see?”

“Oberyn is here?! Haven’t seen that guy,” Jaime argues, making a face.

“Oh, no, but his daughters are there, and they got the keys," Irri argues. Lolly just goes on ogling at him wordlessly. 

“Does Oberyn know about that party?” Jaime questions.

“I don’t think he’d particularly care. He is out of town anyway,” Irri replies with a roll of her delicate shoulders.

“I see. So you planned on that in a longer while?” Jaime says, narrowing his eyes in mockery.

“We wanted it to be a surprise! We have grog and some Christmas candy and music…," Ami goes on. 

“Yeah, I bet," Jaime snorts. 

“So? Will you be there too?” Irri asks, fluttering her eyelashes at him. 

“I, uhm… Don’t you think it’d lessen the fun if the boss’s son is there?” he argues. 

“What? _No_ , no one would bother. Rest assured. A lot of ladies would be disappointed, if not wounded if you were to turn down the offer," Ami insists. 

“I…,” Jaime looks around to find the spot where Brienne stood now empty. “I don’t really know if I can… take the time. But can I get back at you once you head out?”

“Of course, though we strongly hope you will come. It’d be much more interesting with you around.”

“How long until you will go?”

“Half an hour at tops. Some of us are freezing a whole lot. In the cozy warmth of a fireplace, things will be ever the cozier," she says, squeezing his arm. 

“Alright, I will let you know. But for now… I have to excuse myself. I promised my brother to bring him… some cookies he seems to _love_ about as much as wine. And what a brother would I be if I were to turn him down?”

“You are so considerate," Lollys brings out at last. 

“Yeah, _right_. So, until later then, I suppose," Jaime says with a grimace. 

“Don't keep us waiting for too long," Ami calls after him. 

“I wouldn’t ever dare.”

With that Jaime ducks away from the little geese, his eyes scanning the area for the tall yet familiar frame of the wench. The little minx dares to just go away without him, leaving him to the cheetahs? She might just as well saved him by intervening, but of course, when it counts, cat seems to have gotten her tongue.

“So, where are you hiding now, wench?” he mutters to himself as he starts to walk down the path that looks even shittier thanks to the fake snow, a path made of mud and colorful wrappings children carelessly threw to the ground, some smashed candy canes that leave white-red stripes under some many folks’ boots, spilled mulled wine and eggnog… and likely some puke close to where they serve the alcoholic beverages.

_A truly Merry Christmas!_

Maybe she is by the snow globe stand over there? Or is that too much kitsch for the likes of Brienne of Tarth?

Or maybe she is getting something to eat?

_Silent night, holy night,_   
_Son of God, love's pure light;_   
_Radiant beams from thy holy face_   
_With the dawn of redeeming grace,_   
_Jesus, Lord, at thy birth,_   
_Jesus, Lord, at thy birth._

_The ladies’ bathroom?_

“No way in the Seven Hells, Sansa!”

“Ah, found her!” Jaime laughs out cheerfully, that woman’s voice being singular to hear in any crowd. He spots Brienne soon enough, talking to Sansa Stark, who looks more like a bouncy ball, bending her knees again and again, her hands folded in front of her chest pleadingly.

“ _Please_ , Brienne. Everyone else is going.”

“Everyone? Even Cleos?”

“ _Even Cleos_. If I tell you it’s everyone, it’s everyone! _Everyone_! You can’t sit out if everyone is there, Brienne! C’mon, pull yourself together. I know you don’t like those gatherings, but it’s once a year and it’s Christmas and I don't want you to sit out, okay?” Sansa insists.

“I am fine sitting out because I have no interesting in either or.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“No,” Brienne sighs, hugging her flat chest.

“We wanted to take a group photo.”

“While I could care less about having my picture taken, there is nothing that prevents you from taking one now,” Brienne argues.

“Yes there is, because now you can’t even recognize people in their furs and coats and beanies and hats and gloves and…,” Sansa rambles. Brienne holds up her hands. “I get it, I get it.”

“You don’t have to stay long. Just for a few drinks.”

“Sansa,” Brienne moans.

“My mother said…,” Sansa begins, but Brienne cuts her off, “Now don’t come me with Catelyn.”

“Pretty please.”

Brienne lets out a long sigh.

_It’s no use._

“… But really, we take that picture early on. One drink and I am out.”

“Yay! I know I can always count on you, Brienne!”

Brienne leans her head back as Sansa dances over to Margaery, making a victory-pose, to which the other woman happily claps her hands, waving at Brienne with a warm smirk on her lips.

That is the last thing she needed. If everyone is going to be there, there are most certainly just those people she wants nothing to do with. But with Sansa… she just can’t say no to the girl. Brienne owes her mother because she helped her get the job at the Lannister Corp. And Sansa is just trying to be kind and inclusive, she knows. But the young woman just doesn’t get her troubles because she is a pretty girl that everyone gets along with. Brienne knows she isn’t.

“Ah, seems that I found you at last! I already feared you eloped without me.”

“Apparently, I got myself yet another round of Christmas Madness, with pictures!” Brienne grumbles.

_**Eloped** without him, though? _

“I have heard of that… festivity,” Jaime says, nodding slowly.

“I reckon that is was the ladies wanted to invite you,” Brienne says, waving her hand around dismissively.

_Speaking of, where are the ladies? Shouldn’t they still try to wrap themselves around Jaime’s throat?_

“Well, you would know had you not left me to them, like easy prey.”

“I thought you were off fine with all that attention you got,” Brienne snorts.

“I didn’t ask for it. Ami jumps anything and anyone, it is known.”

“ _In any case_ … I guess I won’t get around that one either. I suppose that whole day is just for the trashcan,” Brienne huffs.

“You wound me, woman,” he pouts, touching his chest.

“Whatever.”

“Now, I will make you an offer, and it’d be better for you to take the deal,” Jaime then says, making Brienne frown. “What now?”

“It seems that I will have to attend this madness the same way. How about we make the deal that we stick to ourselves so long we can help it and then disappear as soon as there is an opportunity?”

“Why would you care for my company? You can just as well say ‘ _hey, my father, your boss, called, bye_.’”

“I have more class than that. And I rather spend my time in the company of someone who hates his whole ordeal as much as I do than be forced to sing along to _I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day_ , _O Holy Night_ , or _Ding Dong Merrily on High_ … I mean, I could get behind _A Virgin Unspotted_ for the version my brother came up with or _I Came Upon the Midnight Clear_ … or at least _The Seven Joys of Mary_.”

“Did you seriously _rewrite_ all of these?” Brienne asks, making a face.

“I’ve had many Christmases to live through already, so _of course_ my brother and I used our time wisely. Though I must say it’s much funnier when you are _really_ drunk,” Jaime argues.

Those are some of the brightest Christmas memories he has – which is miserable in itself, but it’s better than nothing, Jaime supposes.

“Good to know.”

“So? Do we have a deal?”

“What deal is there even?” Brienne frowns. Jaime gestures at them both as he goes on talking, “You and I both know that you won’t maneuver yourself out any time soon. For that you are too bad at lying. So you will spend the rest of the evening nursing your drink on someone’s couch, making awkward smiles at Sansa the whole time… and probably watch more unsee-able things.”

“And you can prevent that _how_?”

“I am a Lannister. Lannisters are really good liars. Granted that we will have to take that picture, I think I can get us out half an hour later.”

“Half an hour?”

_That sounds… promising! Too good to be true, almost._

“You can’t rush things. And the important thing is that we leave _together_. If not, you’ll spend the rest of the evening holding your coat, stuck in conversation with likely Hugh, who only talks about being… himself and how awesome that is.”

Brienne grimaces – she actually had that often enough, and doesn’t need revisiting.

“So, you can play my brother, I mean _sister_ -in-arms, and hate on all that Christmas fuss while at the house and head out ASAP… or be stuck by yourself to loathe the festivity while watching people sliding tongues down each other’s throat and passing out on the couch drunk and smelling of cinnamon and… likely vomit.”

“Quite vivid descriptions.” She makes a face.

“All of which come from experience… man, don’t ever underestimate intoxicated college students around this time of the year,” Jaime replies with a grin, shuddering theatrically. “You see, I do hate that festivity with a burning passion, in case it went without your notice.”

“I noticed… Half an hour, you say,” Brienne repeats, narrowing her eyes.

“Well, it might be _a bit_ longer. It depends on circumstance! But one hour maximum. That’s better than anything you’ll get, trust me in this, wench.”

“Fine, then we have a deal,” Brienne says resolutely, nodding her head.

“Splendid! Then let’s head over to the others and urge them to get going.”

“Less time to spend in their company… I can agree to that,” Brienne replies with the smallest of grins.

For _some_ reason, the idea of sneaking away has something strangely thrilling about it, she has to admit to herself.

And for the first time, Brienne is not really jealous but glad that Jaime has this way about people. A few words, comments, and whispers in some of the ladies’ ears, and all get ready and set to go!

_A Christmas miracle!_

“So? Ready to loathe and use the first chance we get to make our sweet escape?” Jaime’s voice suddenly rings out to her left this time. Brienne whips around, almost jumping in surprise.

“Are we a bit skittish tonight?” he chuckles. “I thought I was clear about the conditions of our cooperation.”

“It’s just unusual,” Brienne grumbles, pulling the collar of her coat even higher to dip her chin and mouth into the fabric. She’d rather shrink away right at this moment. Not only because she hates walking in bigger crowds of way too cheery, way too drunk people, bumping against her all the while, but also or perhaps most notably because Jaime is now only inches from her, pressed closer to her now that they are pretty much stuck in the middle of the _Christmas Mob_ heading towards the Martell residence.

And that guy doesn’t seem to care in the slightest! Jaime just smirks as he walks on as though this was the greatest experience ever, the most natural thing on earth, whereas Brienne has to fight an even bigger blush from spreading across her face – and not just from the cold. 

Or maybe the mead is just getting to her.

But soon enough her thoughts pull away from Jaime once she catches sight of a familiar mob of hair more towards the front of the group.

 _Ugh_. In the Christmas fuss she almost forgot about that, but now…

Well, if she is lucky enough, Jaime will break them out before she has to interact with that person.

“You’re very quiet all of a sudden,” Jaime says, yanking Brienne back to the handsome man striding beside her.

“I was just thinking about something, sorry,” Brienne replies with a grimace she is glad to get lost in the fabric of her coat covering her mouth.

“Well, either you tell me of those thoughts or we find something to talk about – or else that deal will be pretty shitty for me.”

“Why do you hate Christmas?” Brienne asks bluntly. Jaime laughs at that, throwing his head back slightly. “You’re not the one for subtlety, are you?”

“Why ask subtly when there is a straightforward way?” she argues.

“True again, I suppose… well, the _moderate_ version is this: Being a Lannister comes with privileges but also responsibilities, and with that… upholding the family’s esteem and self-crafted picture. Father wants everything to be perfect. That means any interaction involving… more than just him, my siblings, and me… will be the best theater you can get for free… well, I still think you pay with your soul for it, but that’s another matter,” Jaime explains in an easy voice, though Brienne senses that this is something rather serious to him after all. “In any case. Do you know those family dinners you have to attend that are just there for display?”

“Yes,” Brienne grunts in agreement. While her father is not one to pretend to be someone else, family festivities or greater get-togethers, such as the one at Dragonstone this year is likely going to be, always lead to a change in atmosphere. You have to put on fancy clothes, sit stiffly in your chair, talk to people you have seen… only ever for those dinners, and pretend like you are part of something you are alien to.

She knows it. She hates it.

“Well, imagine that for Christmas, every year since you can remember. There was no single Christmas where it wasn’t Tywin Lannister putting his children to display, hair sleeked back, and put in some stupid looking suit and dress in case of my sister. And as or the suit, I still think it looks about as ridiculous on a kid as does a sailor costume, something that many find endearing for some fucked-up reason, though.”

“We have some family pictures with my brother… he’s had to wear a sailor outfit back when he was little.”

“I bet he didn’t like it.”

“I guess so.” Brienne shrugs.

“No matter the attire, however, Lannister family dinners are no more than a show and comparing dicks without opening one’s pants. Father wants to show how he is an over-achiever, how his children excel in the family firm, how he keeps alive the Lannister Empire… and anything that doesn’t fit into his perfect little plans… it doesn’t exist. You know, I’d have less trouble with it all if there was something… _personal_ to accompany that feast, but it’s just eating, conversing, and pretending. And I had way too many years of pretending for just those occasions to please Father… I don’t know, I’d rather want out, but it’s required.”

“And I bet you can’t steal away like from a Christmas party like this, huh?” Brienne says with a sympathetic smile, glad that her father is not like that.

“Sadly not.”

“Well, if it is you any comfort, it’s not just your family doing it. While I suppose your Father to be… rather extreme… Tensed-up dinners with people you don’t know is something many people seem to be fond of for some reason,” Brienne tells him.

“One of these days I should just flip the bird at Father and just spend Christmas however the Seven Hells I please,” Jaime grumbles.

“And what would that be?” she asks.

“I don’t even know. Probably just chilling on the couch in sweatpants and watch some old Christmas movie.”

“Very festive,” Brienne snorts.

“Well, I could put on a Santa hat, or reindeer antlers.”

“That might work.”

And that is when the illuminated Martell Residence comes into view.

_Christmas Hell Vol. 2 has officially begun._


	2. Of a Christmas Orgy under the Mistletoe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne are at the party... trying to make it through. 
> 
> However, trouble is on its way not just because the Sand Snakes have some party ideas the two do not really agree with, and because Brienne has to face some demons from the past. 
> 
> Furthermore, the two still contemplate on the possibility of whether or not the mead might have been spiked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> Thanks for sticking around the Christmas madness!
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy!

At last, the mansion comes into sight and Oberyn’s daughters yell at everyone to get inside and start to “ _parteeeeyyyy_ “ as people hurry inside to finally escape the cold.

“The prospect of a _parteeeyyyy_ revives such Christmas spirit within me,” Jaime huffs as he walks through the door, right into a mock-version of Christmas with party lights, though at least they bothered to only include red, green, and white, with tree-shaped beams of light along with small santas and snowflakes flickering across the walls of the gigantic living room Oberyn calls his own. Alcohol is neatly lined up right at the beginning to ensure proper intoxication. The girls all have their fun with the small welcome presents that the sisters seem to have bought at the trashiest stand on the Christmas market, hats and antlers with bells and glitter, in all colors of the pastel color palette. Some mixed version of _Last Christmas_ blares over the loudspeakers.

_**Very** festive. _

“I think we just stumbled into the techno version of Christmas,” Jaime says, looking around as he takes off his coat to put on a rack, gesturing at Brienne to give him her coat, which she does without another word. He can’t help the small smirk at her hair tousling up in all kinds of directions once she takes off her hat, which is strangely endearing… as appears to be some many things about that woman once you take a closer look.

_Curious._

But Jaime’s attention drifts away from the blonde woman with bright blue eyes when someone starts to yell behind them. He cocks eyebrows at the… _extravaganza_ therefore unfolding before his eyes as he takes in the whole scenery. Brienne allows her eyes to wander for a moment as well, spotting Hugh dry-humping against one of the Sand Snakes, as Oberyn’s daughters tend to be called around the office, tumbling over one of the armchairs, only to reveal both sucking on a candy cane together.

“The _dirty_ techno version of Christmas,” Brienne adds, still somewhat transfixed by the image.

“Seven Hells. I thought they’d at least wait until after the first round of eggnog before the eggsnog. Those guys definitely don’t waste their time,” Jaime says with a grimace, tilting his head to the side.

“Ever the more a reason to find a… not so occupied corner now.”

“Good point,” he agrees.

The two start to duck and half-dance their way across the floor, past some Frenching, some talking, some brawling, and some doing a little bit of all, to the part least crowded, the corner created by the huge fireplace reaching all the way to the gallery above, of the finest and likely most expensive, Dornish gold. Even if that space isn’t much… it’s better than nothing. Brienne leans against the warm metal, relishing the warmth creeping up her spine.

Jaime, due to having so little room, stands only inches from her, facing towards her as people keep rushing past his back.

“I must say I didn’t think it’d be anything like that,” Jaime says with a grin. “But then again, Oberyn’s daughters are known to be… wild.”

“ _Wild_ seems to be an understatement,” Brienne snorts, seeing the two sisters not all over Hugh doing strange acrobatics while standing on the table. “They seriously found elf costumes somewhere.”

“Leaving little to the imagination,” Jaime adds, making a face. “Oberyn should ground them more often or so… or should’ve back in the day, now grounding will likely result in even more house _parties_.”

“Or maybe he should not always let Ellaria handle the kids.”

“True again. Honest to God, the only reason why they get to make internships at the company is because of their dad… and that incident the Lannisters and the Martells had back in the day, otherwise they could just as well start out as barmaids at a club on Silk Street.”

Elia Martell had tried to build up her own small firm, and got crushed by Lannister politics and the monopoly they have on the market. Elia had to close down her company therefore. Oberyn claims that this was the _only_ reason why she had a depression, and henceforth blamed Jaime’s family for anything going wrong with the Martells, pretty much. Tywin only let the Sand Snakes do the internships because Oberyn holds a chair in the committee – and it was the easiest thing to do to shut the Dornish Prince up.

Though Jaime knows that his father has no intention whatsoever to hire them later on, at least not in the spot Oberyn would want to see them in. Internships don’t harm the company, but unable employees by contrast do, and Tywin won’t let that happen. That much is for sure.

“Politics.”

“Exactly. And I fuckin’ hate it,” Jaime grumbles.

“Well, so long it keeps the stability,” Brienne argues with a roll of her shoulders.

“Might be. I just hate it to see Oberyn being the arrogant little ass for feeling like he won.”

“Well, the upside for you should be that you know that your father is just letting him think that.”

“True again. Though I’d pay good money to have him walk in on this _parteeeeyyyy_.”

“I wouldn’t,” Brienne replies. “He’d likely join in and try to hit on the young male interns.”

“Thinking about it… yeah, no need to see that. Rumor has it that he took Olyvar along for that business trip only to have some sexy time with him and Elia.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Brienne says. She saw way too many things in the hallways, and even the ladies’ bathroom, because apparently, Oberyn Martell doesn’t care about any sort of rules.

“I still think he never attends business meetings while abroad but just spends his days in luxurious hotel rooms, fucking someone’s brains out. Though then again… I have to give him that much, that is likely better than those business meetings by far.”

Brienne says nothing at that, trying her best not to blush as some certain images creep along the edges of her consciousness, of Jaime doing _just_ that… wherever those images came from all of a sudden, because without a doubt, such thoughts never evaded her mind up until tonight.

_The mead, definitely the mead._

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Jaime says, gladly pulling Brienne out of those unknown territories. “Since I shared my ideal Christmas with you, it’d only be fair if you now shared yours.”

“You seriously think takeaway, faux antlers, and sweatpants make for an ideal Christmas?” Brienne huffs, surprised at herself how _playful_ she can actually sound – especially while talking to Jaime of all people.

“I know the best of takeaways, super expensive, but with the finest culinary tidbits, and I’d take any comfortable sweatpants-and-TV-day over Lannister Family Dinner, which makes this perhaps not ideal, but… damn close.”

And as if on cue, someone bumps into Jaime’s back rather harshly right at that moment, sending him tripping forward, _damn close_ now to Brienne, which is to say that he is now pressed against her and the warm metal of the fireplace.

“Watch out, asshole!” he hollers over his shoulder, though Sandor has apparently zero fucks to give as he has a bunch of chicken wings in a bowel stuck under his arm, maneuvering to one of the chairs far away to enjoy his yield, or so it appears.

Brienne just stands there, as though she just froze to merge with the metal of the fireplace.

The last time she was that close to Jaime Lannister, he had purposely invaded her personal space, believing he could threaten her, or so she reckoned, with some snarky comment after she spoke up against him for a project.

The _moderate_ version of that encounter is that she hooked her heel behind his, then gave him a shove, to make him tumble right into the office chair behind him, sending him twirling around on it.

To this day, Brienne considers this one of her proudest office moments. Jaime’s face was priceless – because no, that was the one time she caught him off-guard. He didn’t see it coming, there was no comment, just him silently turning in that chair, looking at her.

But now… she is the one with the lost facial expression – because apparently, Jaime’s smug smile is right back in place as his gaze meets hers, a twinkle in those emerald orbs that makes her shiver involuntarily.

Jaime opens his mouth to say something, but Brienne is quick enough to not even let him utter a single sound. “I’ll get myself something to drink. Do you want something too?”

He tilts his head to the side, a few loose yet silken strands of hair falling into his face…

_Just what is this man?_

“… Sure,” he replies slowly, but not even making an attempt to move away, one hand deftly planted on the metal next to her head.

“… mulled wine?”

“I’ll take what you bring me, princess,” he grins, the outline of his white teeth showing, making him look almost predatory.

_Also… **Princess** , really? _

“I’ll be right back, then,” Brienne mumbles, before quickly ducking under his arm and bolting away. Jaime watches on as she awkwardly wades through the crowd of drunken and making-out colleagues, before he twists around to lean his back against the warm metal of the fireplace.

Teasing Brienne is one of his most favorite things to do at the office. Truth be told, it’s likely the one thing that makes his day ever since she started at Lannister Corp., stuck between avoiding Father, Cersei, and rolling his eyes at people either slacking off duties or being too dumb for the simplest of tasks.

Seeing her squirm and trying to escape is just too delicious.

Though at the same time, the quite curious thing seems to be that he finds himself seeking those moments _especially_ tonight, so Jaime has to realize. Because Brienne surely had the rights of it – if he really wanted, Jaime could have gotten out of the situation with ease, but…

_Oh well, someone’s gotta rescue the maid from the dragonpit, or Sand Snake pit._

Needless to mention that Brienne is one of the few people he really enjoys talking to. Many would think that she has nothing interesting to say, because most of the time, the woman is tight-lipped, only says what is required, or starts to lecture you… well, Jaime in particular, but she is actually quite sharp and quick-witted.

Brienne learned very early on, or so it appears, to speak up against him in particular, though, which is a rarity. Most others fear Jaime because they know whose son he is. Or even if they don’t necessarily fear him, they will not really oppose him if he gives an order.

Not so Brienne of Tarth.

No two weeks into the job, and she was the one to point out to him, while politely and soft-spoken so, in a private moment after the meeting so not to embarrass either one, that his approach was not the most efficient, suggesting another instead. Jaime would like to believe that he stood right, but the woman had the rights of it. Thus, her approach was chosen eventually.

Three weeks into the job, and she spoke up during a group meeting when Jaime was about to hand out tasks to all involved, no longer in private, that she’d better be put on another team because she has experience in another field, while Margaery would be better put in her spot instead.

Four weeks into the job, and they had the first real fight, with audience, quarreling over some schedule as far as Jaime recalls. She was red as a tomato, and stomped off angrily. That was when he officially adopted “wench” as his pet name for her.

Five weeks into the job, they were at each other’s throat every single day. And perhaps gladly so, nothing much has changed about that circumstance since – because apparently, they brought about far better results ever since Brienne… opened up the realm of _discussion_.

 _On the fifth day of Christmas_  
_My true love sent to me:_  
_Five Golden Rings_  
_Four Calling Birds_  
_Three French Hens_  
_Two Turtle Doves_  
_And a Partridge in a Pear Tree_

Jaime sighs. A _rap_ version of _that_ song, too? And just why does he find himself humming along for the ninth’s day stanza?

_… Nine Ladies dancing  
Eight Maids milking… _

The mead is _definitely_ getting to him. Jaime hates Christmas with a burning passion, yet here he stands between mock-versions of elves in sexy costumes leaving nothing to the imagination, and Christmas trees flickering across his clothes as the lights keep dancing above him.

Just when are they going to take that bloody photo already so that they can make their sweet escape?

_And where the Seven Hells is his wench?_

Brienne, meanwhile, somehow managed to make her way across the improvised dancefloor to maneuver to the table with the drinks.

_Mulled wine, mulled wine, mulled wine… ah, there!_

“Why, now look who’s untangled herself from the Golden Boy,” a man’s voice rings out. Brienne whips her head around.

_There he is._

“Ronnet.”

“It’s curious really, we work in the same company, but I almost never get to see you,” he goes on to say.

“Huge building. Different departments. Are you buddy-buddy with all the janitors or people working in the archives? No. So… stands to reason,” Brienne quips, focusing her attention back on the drinks.

“Or is it that you are still avoiding me?” he argues with what Brienne knows is a cocksure grin.

Brienne sucks her lower lip into her mouth for a moment before she blows out a long breath.

“For me to want to avoid you would imply that I care about you in any way,” Brienne replies, keeping her voice leveled and light in tune as _Frosty the Snowman_ blares over the loudspeakers. 

_A **club** version, though, seriously?! Such a thing even exists? _

“Oh, you wound me. I mean, _fine_ , I know, there was that little incident…”

“Exactly, _little_. Not worth speaking of. Hm? So why bring it up again and _again_?” Brienne retorts.

Because he just won’t leave it alone. It’s been high school, but that man wants to bring high school even back to the office. Likely because those were the only days of glory he ever had. Football team. Basketball team captain. Now he is stuck at Lannister Corp., not having received a promotion in years. Because, or so Margaery told her, she always knows the gossip from Olenna, the council decides again and again that he does not improve in any way, therefore making him unfit of any higher position than the one he currently occupies.

That low-level job at the service department is the best he can get.

So, at some point, Brienne knows why he likes to bully those who were below him back at high school. They make him feel superior again.

But Brienne graduated high school a long time ago – and she has no intention to play doormat for that red-haired guy.

She won’t raise those demons from her youth so long she can help it.

_The Ghost of Christmas Past can go ahead fuck himself._

“You know I’m just teasing you,” he moans, drawing a bit closer, and Brienne suppresses any urge to just take a giant step away.

He stinks of wine and wretchedness – with a bit of cinnamon.

“Yeah, I bet.”

“But honestly, girl. Whatever you think you’re doing with Tywin Fuckin’ Lannister’s offspring, I’d quit before it’s too late. I actually mean you well by saying so,” Ronnet goes on to say. Brienne frowns at him incredulously. “ _Talking_ to him, you mean? We work together.”

“Yeah, the way you squeeze your legs together, I bet you just wanna _talk_.”

Brienne’s mouth falls open, but gathers herself quick enough to reply sharply. “Cut to the point before I forget myself.”

“You think he is interested… in you, don’t you? And that’s one huge mistake on your behalf.”

“Like it was to believe that you liked me back in the day?” Brienne snorts.

“… In fact, yeah,” Ronnet replies. Brienne bites the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste copper. Only Ronnet Connington would use his own distastefulness as means to make a point about all men being like him – and point it out as _advice_ , to the woman he actually did this to!

“You see, I just saw it tonight, and hell, girl, you maneuver yourself right into the next ditch with that. I know what I did wasn’t a fine move exactly…,” he says, but Brienne interrupts him. “A _bit_ of an understatement, but alright, let’s stick to ‘not a fine move exactly’ for the present purpose.”

“The point is – I did what _most_ guys do, because I am one of the guys… So I just advise you… to not embarrass yourself any further. Lannister likely only talks to you because he got the order to see about it that no one’s left out at the business party, from daddy most likely. Or he is just out for a good laugh. Guys are like that.”

“You seem to know him very well for not even seeing him… ever,” Brienne argues. “Or working with him in the first place.”

“I know men, being one myself.”

“And what a man you are,” she huffs, fully aware that this just gets Ronnet’s anger flaring, but she doesn’t really care. “Hey, I said it, I am just giving you some good advice, girl.”

Brienne snaps her gaze to him, narrowing her eyes. “Let me give _you_ some advice in turn – you want to conclude about other men by measuring them against you. But Ronnet, the issue is that your bar does not go up that high."

Brienne stares at the table once the words tumbled out of her mouth.

Did she just say that?!

_That mead, it's in the mead!_

“You mean?” he asks slowly, his voice sounding like a kettle short before starting to whistle.

“… Forget what I said. I just had a bit too much mead over at the Christmas Market,” Brienne sighs.

She doesn’t want to fight.

He is not at all worth the energy.

“No, no, now I’d like to know,” he demands. “ _Love_ to know.”

And Brienne just seems to be fed up enough. “If you really _must_ know… think about it like this: You compare yourself to Jaime because you think you are equals. I think that’s a wrong premise. That guy isn’t just entitled. He is hard-working, even if most people don’t seem to realize that. I can say that because _I_ work with him. Our team’s success supports that fact. As far as I know from others, your department… cannot really speak of huge success lately by contrast, despite… or maybe _because_ … of the fact that _you_ are the head of it.”

“So, because rich boy’s in a better position at the job than I, I am a lesser man, you mean?” he huffs. “Not all of us were born with a silver spoon in our mouths, or golden spoon in case of the Lannisters.”

“No, _you_ are a lesser man because you treat women like shit and didn’t grow up a single bit since high school, wanting to bully those you picked on already back during your teenage years. You know who does that? Pathetic men who can’t establish dominance otherwise, or just guys who didn’t ever bother growing up, bemoaning no longer being in high school where they once mattered,” Brienne snaps, not quite believing herself that… she seriously just said that, after years of avoiding that man successfully.

Just why does she keep talking?!

“Wo-hoooah!” Asha’s voice rings out. “Someone’s got water for that burn?”

People heard them?

Brienne whips her head back around to Ronnet, whose Adam’s apple is bobbing up and down at rapid speed, making him look less like a griffin, as his house’s sigil would suggest, and more like a cock, short before crowing shrilly. His eyes gleam at her in a dark shade that makes her shudder involuntarily.

While Brienne can’t find it in herself to regret her words – because they are true – she normally knows better than to be in people’s faces. She wants no trouble. She is not out for getting back at people who may have wronged her some years ago. Brienne cares little about revenge. She got it anyway, even if only for herself. That was enough.

Needless to mention that there is no sense in her defending Jaime to someone like Ronnet. What does she care? Why does it suddenly matter to her?

Just why didn’t she keep her mouth shut?

“… Interesting point,” Ronnet says slowly, in a low voice.

“You asked for it,” Brienne replies, not even caring to back down now. She means it, so stepping back would give him a satisfaction she doesn’t think she owes him.

“Mhm, sure,” he says, nodding slowly once, twice, before he looks at her again, a crooked smirk creeping up his lips. He starts to walk past her, but stops once he is right in front of her, leaning in close. “Maybe you wanna use that. I suppose that’s the only way for you to fulfill your sweet little dreams of the things you won’t ever have.”

Brienne can feel him thrusting something into her palm.

“But hey, if you keep giving him enough mulled wine, who knows? Maybe he’s gonna fuck you real hard after all. And as my old man says, all women look the same in the dark, so you might get lucky tonight and he’ll forget what you look like to give you a proper fuck, so long you remember to blow the candles out before you spread your legs for him. It’d be a _Christmas Miracle_!”

With that he walks away, leaving Brienne standing there. She glances down at the thing in her palm.

A **Mistletoe**.

Brienne blinks once, twice, but then focuses on the task of filling up the mugs with mulled wine, stuffing the mistletoe into the back pocket of her jeans, before she makes her way back across the dancefloor, trying her best not spill anything as she can’t help but stare at Daenerys as she has yet again a loud argument with her brother Viserys, only to have her toyboy Daario tear Viserys away as he keeps yelling that _he_ is “the dragon”, not her, as she goes on petting that plush dragon Daario got for her by the can knockdown stand on the Christmas fair.

Brienne finds Jaime leaning against the side of the fireplace, leaning in the same spot she was in before she sneaked away to get the drinks. And Brienne can’t help but think that maybe she should have just stayed or suggested to Jaime to get them something to drink – because then she would have spared herself this drama.

But all is forgotten the moment he catches sight of her and his eyes almost seem to light up.

_Or maybe it’s just the green Christmas trees dancing over him from the stupid light show._

One thing she is certain of, however, is that he smiles at her, and that she finds herself smiling back.

“Ah, I was _that_ close to sending out a rescue squad to come find you!” he calls out as she covers the rest of the distance, handing him one of the mugs as she takes up his previous spot now.

“Thank you. My throat was already _parched_ ,” Jaime grins, taking a sip from the wine.

_Not the almost bad._

“Sorry, someone started talking to me… and I am not good at talking myself out of a situation,” Brienne sighs.

“Yeah, that’s true. So, unless we get ourselves out before that, I’ll get the next round of drinks.”

“… Alright.”

“Everything okay with you?” he asks, his voice suddenly… _concerned_. Brienne blinks, before taking a quick sip of mulled wine.

_It must be the mead. It has to be._

“Yeah, yeah. Just… I am not used to parties like that,” Brienne explains, which is close enough to the truth. She hates crowded places in general.

_Especially if Ronnet Connington is in them._

“Yet another of those things that are despicable about Christmas, don’t you agree?” Jaime says with a smirk. “Christmas shopping.”

“Ugh,” Brienne grunts, shuddering, trying to ease back into conversation with him, trying to forget Ronnet and what he said, and that stupid mistletoe now poking against her rear.

“It’s like the White Walkers are about to come every year to annihilate the world. As though there wasn’t going to be any food after the holidays.”

“Which is why I try to buy everything beforehand.”

“Yeah, me, too. But I always tend to forget one or two things I then have to get at the last second anyway,” Jaime sighs.

“Like Christmas presents?” Brienne says, finding herself smiling into her mug, surprised to have Jaime laugh throatily… _honestly_. Normally, people find her anything but funny.

 _Dull_ – that’s what her Septa used to say.

“Like Christmas presents indeed,” Jaime agrees, still chuckling. “Well, I will have to get back into the madness for Tyrion’s present, still. Father’s is already ordered.”

“Online shopping?”

“I had some spare time as you got the drinks – and _Trident_ is your best friend if you are a premium member. They have everything in that online store. Tyrion’s likely their best customer – because shipping books is free, and the Seven know he loves his books. He orders them in heaps.”

“I didn’t know they sold those wax seals online?” Brienne says, knitting her eyebrows. She went to the store, that much is for certain.

“I was surprised as well, but _Trident_ linked to a private online store. You just have to upload a picture of the sigil you want… well, to cut things short, it’s done now. And it will get done by tomorrow. I just have to pick it up myself, or else it’d be too late.”

“Good for you.”

“You don’t come to have yet another idea to save me the misery of buying something impersonal for my brother, do you? Because I rather would have something good for him at last… he is the one family member I actually like.”

“It’s your family,” Brienne argues.

“I don’t say I don’t _love_ them. I just say that I don’t _like_ them, safe for Tyrion. Huge difference,” Jaime argues.

There was a time when he was still much younger when he was all into hanging out with his sister alone, but then… Cersei was sent to boarding school in King’s Landing, he was sent to boarding school at Crakehall, and that was a turning point in his life. Jaime suddenly had a good number of close friends, after he was so used to only being around his family, and Cersei specifically, enjoyed playing outside. And despite the antiquatedness of it, Jaime loved the fencing lessons, the horse riding, the whole program. Coming back to Casterly Rock and meeting with Cersei again, for the holidays and the like, soon proved to be a constant measure of their growing estrangement. She was interested in different things than Jaime. She had her friends, he had his own.

Then she started making trouble during her teenage times, getting drunk and trying some funny things during parties with Melara and some other girlfriends of hers. When Cersei and Jaime went to college, she gave up after first semester, finding everything just too bothersome, much to their Father’s displeasure. He saw to it that she then started at the company almost straight away. Cersei was pissed when he didn’t instantly promote her to one of the top positions, especially since Tyrion, once it came to it, was slowly but surely establishing himself as an important link in the staff department that, while still mostly without praise from Father did find recognition resulting in him being head of the department soon enough, while Cersei felt like a secretary. And as sure as the Seven Hells burn hot did she not like that.

Once Jaime started at the company, she was ever the more displeased that Father “favored” him over her by putting him in the marketing sector in a well-situated position, even if Jaime knows for a matter of fact that he at least bothered to study _just_ that at college, which made him apt for that position even without being Tywin Lannister’s firstborn son.

The twins had a small sort of fallout after she demanded of him to talk to Father to put her in a better position in the company, only to then go on suggesting that Jaime may want to quit at the family firm to prove himself out in the job market, with the clear intention of taking his spot. Jaime could care less about the job at times, but he was furious with her for wanting to use their familial bond in that way, by trying to trick him out of a position he actually worked for. He didn’t talk to her in a long time, not even for Christmas dinner where everyone just smiles it away.

He eventually reconciled himself with that and is now on speaking terms with her again, however. Cersei for her part still seems rather jealous of her brothers faring better at the company than her, but she is more settled now and simply goes about her own business. In fact, she recently got herself a promotion, and as far as Jaime is concerned, that may have been one of the few instances where Cersei actually seemed to have grasped that she has to work for something herself in order to get it, instead of letting others do the job.

Though now Lancel started at the company, and the poor lad is totally in her clutches now. He makes errands for her all the time – and rumor has it that she takes the laurels for things he apparently does for her. So, she seems to fall back into pattern after all.

_Some people just never seem to change past a certain point._

“Well, does he have other hobbies beside… enjoying a good drop?” Brienne asks, ripping Jaime out of his family problems back to the present and surprisingly pleasant circumstance of having someone to talk to about these matters… with an apparent ease he’s only ever felt with Tyrion, to tell the truth.

“Not really. Wherein lies the problem,” he replies.

“Maybe a trip to Highgarden? For a winetasting?” Brienne suggests.

“I was thinking about something like that, too, but… I don’t know, is that _really_ personal? I gifted that to Father some five years ago, needless to mention he never went to a winetasting. He used the trip to converse with Olenna Tyrell about new business routes.”

“Oh my,” Brienne can’t help but chuckle.

Well, at least he seems to get along with Olenna, Jaime reckons. She is one of the few people who speak up to Tywin, no matter the circumstance, which proved to be something that his father came to appreciate about her.

“But… uhm… maybe a trip for two?” Brienne adds rather feebly this time, averting her gaze a bit.

She shouldn’t have said that, actually…

“ _I_ don’t want to go on a winetasting with my dear brother, no matter how fiercely I love him. He once dragged me along a few years ago, to a winetasting in Dorne, with 100 degrees in the shade. In the end, I just carried him from one vintner to the next, hooked over my shoulder as he went on singing _The Dornishman’s Wife_ the whole damn time.”

“No, for him and… his _girlfriend_.”

“Tyrion doesn’t have girlfriends, he has lovers, prostitutes, and _adventures_ , as he calls it.”

“He has one now,” Brienne argues. “A girlfriend, I mean.”

“How would _you_ know that? Did you see him making out with someone at the office? That’s no sure sign in case of my little brother, you see. You can be sure that the woman I’d snog with is the woman I'd call my girlfriend, but Tyrion? He doesn’t really care just where he has his fun. And Father long since gave up on forbidding him to have his fun at the office. It’s no use. And he’s too valuable an employee to throw out.”

“No, I saw him talking to Shae. They talked about… future plans, by the copying machines, a few weeks back,” Brienne explains.

“Like moving in together sort of future plans… _really_?” Jaime asks, not quite believing what he hears.

“She said she didn’t want to yet, because he didn’t even tell anyone about their relationship yet, but he suggested it first… I… shouldn’t have said that,” Brienne mutters, sticking her tongue into the side of her cheek before taking a big gulp of mulled wine.

“Oh no, no, that’s… good to hear. I thought he’d stay forever stuck as the bachelor glancing up every woman’s skirt… I mean, he didn’t really look at the other women lately… upon reflection. Seven Hells, I should have caught that!” Jaime says, as his mind mulls the information over.

Tyrion has a girlfriend.

That is pleasant in many ways. For one, Jaime is glad if his little brother finds himself something steady at last. At the same time… Blackmail material.

_How splendid is that?_

“Well, if you book that for him… he’ll know that you… know him well. And that you are… happy for them?” Brienne suggests.

“This is bloody well perfect!” Jaime exclaims, suddenly grabbing Brienne by the wrist, squeezing gently yet strongly. “Thank you so much! You just saved me from embarrassing myself at the Christmas Dinner from Hell!”

“No… problem,” Brienne replies slowly as her mind just keeps repeating: _He is holding on to my arm. He is holding on to my harm. He is holding on to my arm.  And he didn’t let go yet. And he didn’t let go yet…_

And yet again, as if on cue, someone bumps into Brienne this time, though she manages to maneuver herself into the corner between wall and fireplace instead of on top of Jaime, even if the space is… rather _cramped_.

In the motion, his grip on her loosens up, though… to both her shock and irritation, they are now even closer together once Jaime tilts his head to her side.

“Why, hello you there,” he chuckles.

“There’s too many people working at this company,” Brienne grumbles, trying to spot whoever bumped into her, but no chance anymore.

“I can have some fired if you liked?”

 _Like Ronnet_? she wants to say, but then bites her tongue so not to. Brienne should just forget about all that. Ronnet just means to provoke her. And so long she keeps thinking about it, he wins.

And she’s knocked enough men into the dust to know that he is no match to her.

_A rose, a mistletoe… all just plants in the end._

“Nah, maybe another time,” Brienne says with a wink.

“Just let me know. I have connections,” Jaime chuckles.

“Right,” Brienne snorts, noting with surprise yet again that she finds herself increasingly fast at ease, even with so little space left between them, leaning against the fireplace warming them.

“You still didn’t tell me about your perfect Christmas scenario!” he suddenly says. Brienne frowns, wrinkling her nose. “Or will you play hard to get again? Because then I have to _coax_ the truth out of you, you know?”

And for a moment Jaime finds himself picturing quite some… _very_ specific ways of coaxing those little things out of her, all of which include a _bedroom_ , apparently. And the space below his bellybutton tells him that he quite enjoys that mental image.

_What by the Seven was in that mead?_

“The perfect Christmas scenario… is _anything but this_ here,” Brienne begins, gesturing around at the increasingly wild growing Christmas party, featuring now also Ramsay Bolton and the Sand Snakes throwing knives in the garden, the winner seemingly getting a greet-and-grind, which therefore just results in more grinding no matter who wins.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Jaime makes a face, glad for the distraction from the mental images – not because they are unpleasant, they are _most_ pleasant, but he’d rather not have any physical reactions to it that’d embarrass them both.

“This is all… just _not Christmas_ , you see? At least not for me.”

“Then what is?” he asks, now honestly curious.

“I am actually… really nostalgic about it,” Brienne explains. “Against all odds, I _like_ Christmas, just… _my_ Christmas, the way I’ve known it since I was small.”

“So? What Christmas miracles happen without my notice, likely on Tarth, so that even the Christmas-fuss-hating Brienne of Tarth has to give in to feelings of nostalgia and kitsch? Because now I really _need_ to know!” he laughs.

Jaime looks at her attentively, the strangely familiar twinkle in his eyes, and Brienne is ever the more shocked that someone bothers to listen to her going on about what Christmas should be like, especially bearing in mind that Jaime himself hates Christmas for a good number of reasons.

“So, alright… Christmas _on Tarth_ , you guessed it…,” Brienne begins, to which Jaime makes a small victory pose, bringing her to snort. “Christmas on Tarth is… very different. Very small. We obviously have those awful family dinners as well. We also have those things I absolutely despise: Cheap decoration, fake pine odor in stores… the whole package. _But_ … we also have that little tradition on the isle.”

“Which is?”

“Every Christmas, or rather, the day before Christmas, a lot of people will gather for a big feast in the old, normally vacant fishing village by the shore. It’s one of the few historical sites that date back to before the reign of the Mad King and is often used for tourist tours around the isle during the summer.”

“That’s impressive. Most of that is rubble by now, after the Battle against the Others.”

“Yes! So anyway, a lot of people will gather the days before Christmas and set everything up. They will heat up the houses, make sure it’s all dry and warm, set up big wooden tables and large benches, put up lanterns and lampions and candles so that the whole village pretty much comes back to life once night comes. You’d have to see it to know… just how beautiful that is. I don’t have the words for it, really. It’s all warm and illuminated and… yeah, no. It’s hard to describe.”

Jaime smiles at her. The way her face lights up when she speaks of it is… beyond a word’s description, too.

_In this light she could almost be…_

“Then, the day before Christmas, a lot of people, mostly locals, will come to the village. We have a band playing traditional instruments. There is also wine and hot chocolate. Some tend to bake cookies and so on to give to the children roaming around. Others will even dress up in traditional clothes, like back during the first 300 years after Aegon’s Conquest, some dress up as bards and clowns and other entertainers of that sort, for the children, you see. They love that. My Father loves putting on the clothes our ancestors wore for important occasions. Since there is hardly any use for it in modern times, it’s one of the few times those cloaks get to see the outside of the closet.”

“He lives history. I get that,” Jaime chuckles.

“He says the same thing. Well, my family covers the expenses every year, obviously. So, we will also donate the food to be made in Evenfall Hall’s kitchens that will be served during the feast. So once it’s time, all sit down by the big tables and it’s all served at the same time, for everyone there, no matter who you are or how wealthy you are… or not. All sit together at the tables, dine together, have a good time, you see? It’s like you know all those people when in fact you _really_ actually don’t. You may sit next to a housewife with three children one year, and next to a businessman wearing a bard costume the following year, only to have some interesting conversations with a homeless man the year thereafter.”

“So pretty much the exact opposite to my Christmas experiences with my family,” Jaime snorts.

“In a way, I suppose,” Brienne replies. “But that’s not even the best part. The best part is the stories.”

“ _Stories_?” Jaime repeats, loving the way her big blue eyes flicker up at the mere mention of the word.

As though someone lit a candle right behind her eyelids.

“After dinner, all children are brought to one of the bigger houses of the village. But a lot more people join because they enjoy it so much. And then people take the stage and tell old stories and fairytales, of knights and princesses, of the Game of Thrones, whatever comes to mind…,” Brienne explains, her mind drifting over so many precious memories of those nights, huddled with the other children sitting on the ground, listening attentively to every word spoken, to every story told.

“Without wanting to overpraise my family, my father is a _spectacular_ storyteller. He’s pretty much a legend for all those who ever attended the feast. Some say they only come for his storytelling, actually… The children sit on the ground almost falling forward as they lean in closer, watching and listening to his enacting of the stories. I just remember myself sitting there just like that, even though I’d heard the stories a thousand times and could whisper them along as he told the tales he’d tell me every time before I went to sleep. There was something… magical about that, I don’t know.”

And judging by the twinkle in her eyes, Jaime has no doubt that this was and is a strange sort of magic after all.

“For me… _that_ was always Christmas, like… _actual_ Christmas. I didn’t even care about what came the next day, with the presents and the family dinners, so long I could go to the fishing village the day before. _Of course_ there was a time when I was a teenager and… _stupid_. I told my father that I was too old to come along, and the Seven know that he was greatly disappointed about that. He dragged me along anyway, because as the heirs to Evenfall Hall, we have… _certain responsibilities_ , as he always says. But once I was off to college, he couldn’t really deny me, especially if I had papers due. I felt like I had won at last, but then the day before Christmas came close and I sat in my dorm at Oldtown, feeling miserable, missing the lights and the stories at the fishing village. Missing Christmas.”

She chuckles to herself softly. “I bought an express ticket to Tarth that very night and made it within time, apologized to my father for having been that stubborn and spent yet another happy _Christmas-not-real-Christmas_ at the village. How does it go? Sometimes you have to miss something to really learn to appreciate it? I think that was it.”

“That sounds… really nice,” Jaime says slowly, his mind still trying rather desperately to create those images inside his head, of lights and laughter, anything but stiff Christmas dinners where you must not speak too loudly, or about too personal matters, where you have to mind every step you take and every word you speak. Because the images are so promising of something that he feels so often he lacks with his family, with his miserable sort of Christmas.

_Warmth._

_Comfort._

_Togetherness._

“Though then I can’t help but wonder: What in the Seven Hells are you doing here in King’s Landing anyway, stuck at this Christmas Hell? I mean, I get it, your Father is not there, but you could still go to the village?” Jaime can’t help but ask.

“It’s not the same if he isn’t there. I had that experience once because he was sick and couldn’t come. It was not at all that magical. Because I didn’t have the stories, his facial expressions as he enacted the dragons and marched around as though he was riding a horse…,” Brienne says, before she goes on to admit. “And that is why I had such a fight with my father. Because he should know that this is something very important to me. That this is something… important for our sadly so small family, excluding those nephews and cousins and husbands and wives of sisters and brothers in law at Dragonstone he is now so very eager to see for some damned reason. It was… _our tradition_. He pondered on it for so long, for good reason, and then he is the one bailing out, at the last second!”

“You felt left out,” Jaime says, nodding in understanding.

“Not just that. I felt _cheated_. I still know it’s stupid because it’s not like he told me not to come or so. It’s just that I was disappointed for not having been involved in his plans. He couldn’t even tell me just why it had to be at Dragonstone. Or why we couldn’t make arrangements to spend the day before Christmas together on Tarth, and then catch a flight to Dragonstone the very next day. It’s not like money is the problem for us. But no. Instead, he presented me with that ticket to Dragonstone, telling me that he’d be happy to see me spend the entire holidays there. He didn’t even ask me. _That_ is what bothered me. I know, I know, he likely wanted it to be a surprise, but then again… I just think… doe she know me that little at times? That’s the one thing we always do, the one thing I always tell him I _love_ about Christmas… and then… _this_ …”

“Not a merry Christmas that one, then,” Jaime grimaces sympathetically.

“I am sorry to even bother you with that,” Brienne apologizes, but Jaime shakes his head. “I asked, and hey, I am more than happy to hear that there seems to be something like actual Christmas out there. I had already given up on that hope! I perfectly understand that you’re intent on keeping it. I’d be mad as well.”

“This is… it’s even stupid that we argued. I know he doesn’t mean me ill.”

“Well, even if he doesn’t, it’s still a shit move. You know, in my family, those are the sort of incidents that lead to people not talking to each other for the next five years.”

“What? _No_ , I… I will call him soon enough, to make up and reconcile. He’s the one family I have left. I wouldn’t want to spend weeks hating him… I never could, for that I love him too much. Even now I am just mad, no more. I had a week of being angry and miserable now, watching on with loathing at all that artificial, superficial Christmas fuss, and I am just getting frustrated with myself. So, I want to see to it that we make better arrangements next year… and if he really feels the need for it, invite the relatives over to Tarth, or at least spend the day before Christmas there by ourselves before seeing those cousins and uncles I don't really care about thereafter. There’s a solution to mostly everything… just not this year.”

Jaime grimaces. A very jealous, pitiful part of himself envies Brienne for not only that state of mind, being so easy to forgive and forget, but also for the apparent familial bond that is there between her and her father. He wouldn’t ever have that with Tywin, Jaime knows. But it must be nice not to always have to watch your wording, to know that one make-up-call is enough to fix it, for both to apologize, to hug, and be a family again.

 _I'll be home for Christmas_  
_You can plan on me_  
_Please have snow and mistletoe_  
_And presents by the tree_

 _Christmas eve will find you_  
_Where the love light gleams_  
_I'll be home for Christmas_  
_If only in my dreams_

“… there is seriously a dance club version for _I’ll Be Home for Christmas_?!” Brienne blurts out, making a face.

“Seems like it,” Jaime replies, equally as irritated. “Nothing seems to be sacred anymore. I used to like that song!”

“Hey, you can’t complain, Mr. I-change-lyrics-to-lewd-ones-all-the-time.”

“I don’t tell people, safe for Tyrion… and you, so they get to keep their normal versions. This is now scourged into my brain forever.”

“Cheers to that,” Brienne huffs, holding up her mug. Jaime lifts his up as well to chink it against hers before taking a big swig.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

Brienne points ahead as one of the Sand Snakes climbs on the table to announce:

“To spice things up, we now introduce the _Fishing Rod of Truth_! Those who come to stand under it will have to go on kissing or Frenching or making out, whatever, with the person right next to him or her.”

“That’s a friggin’ mistletoe on a stick,” Jaime makes a face. “That is even less creative than I gave them credit for. And anyway, what do they need special permission for to go on snogging whoever they want? They do that the whole time already!”

“They just want to force those who don’t, I guess,” Brienne suggests.

“I still think they want to start a massive orgy. Let’s hope the drinks aren’t spiked.”

“I’ll keep the fingers crossed,” Brienne grimaces, looking around as the Sand Snakes fight over who gets to swing the rod first.

At some point, roses and mistletoes will just continue to haunt her, or so it seems.

“Well, no way of escaping yet. They got the guards up at the doors,” Jaime says.

“ _Guards_?” Brienne frowns.

“I guess they paid Janos to make sure no one escapes before they say so.”

“If I have to, I can flip that guy over with ease,” Brienne grumbles.

“Now, that is something I would most _definitely_ pay money for,” Jaime says with a grin.

“I'd rather not. Or else there will be nothing but gossip again,” Brienne mutters.

_Like there isn’t going to be anyway… damn you, Ronnet._

“What does it matter if people talk?” Jaime huffs. “I couldn’t care less.”

“Well, I don't have your self-confidence, I told you often enough.”

“You should get some of it, then, wench,” Jaime argues, his eyes fixed on the string with the mistletoe flying through the room under lots of _oooooh’s_ and _aaaahhh’s_ of the crowd. “It makes many things easier in life, like ignoring stupid people.”

“I will remember that,” Brienne says, her eyes following the mistletoe. “What do you think will happen if they manage to poke someone’s eye out with that thing?”

“I wouldn’t put it past some _certain_ people to make a challenge of it who’d eat the eyeball.”

“Ramsay?”

“Totally.”

“Eww.” She makes a face, shuddering at the mental images this creates.

“It's a bit like dodgeball back at school,” Jaime comments, grimacing.

“Not really. Dodgeball was one of my favorite things,” Brienne argues. “This is not.”

“I bet you almost never had to leave the court,” Jaime chuckles.

“I got a friggin’ _trophy_ for not getting kicked out in any match ever since I enrolled at the school, back in fifth grade. I was proud of that thing, I’m telling you,” Brienne chuckles. “So yeah, I still hope to dodge that thing if it comes to poke my eye out, but it is not so much fun as dodgeball was back in the day.”

“Oh, it smacked Hyle in the head! I quite like that!” Jaime laughs, only to see Hyle being almost tossed on the ground by Ami most likely. “I didn’t have to see that.”

“Ugh, Sansa said they wanted to take the pictures in the very beginning.”

“You believed that for only just a second? I still doubt there will be pictures.”

Brienne rolls her head back. “Oh, c’mon.”

“I know she is sweet and all, but she can lie to your face if she must. Littlefinger was most definitely all kinds of bad influence on her when she did the internship over at his office,” Jaime argues.

“Littlefinger is bad influence to the entire human race.”

“True again. He is just still being a piss-pot that he didn’t get to bone Cat because she married someone else,” Jaime huffs.

Brienne focuses her attention back on the _Rod of Truth_ or however they named it – she long since forgot – transfixed by the mistletoe at the end. She is most certain that if she were to catch sight of Ronnet right now, he’d laugh at her and feel proven right. And the more she thinks about it, the more Brienne starts to obsess about that idea.

What if the mistletoe comes upon them and Jaime is forced to kiss her?

Wouldn’t that just prove Ronnet’s point? That he’d only do it because he has to?

Brienne empties her mug of mulled wine at once.

“Good swallowing reflex, I suppose,” Jaime huffs.

“My throat was _parched_ ,” Brienne replies numbly, uncertainly. 

At some point, she would like to scold herself for feeling like she is back at high school again, but her mind does not allow the thought as the fear keeps clutching at her. Because this bubble, however similarly artificial as the orange Christmas tree in the left corner may be, is nice, it’s comfortable. Talking to the private version of Jaime Lannister is… she finds herself wanting it to continue. But that’d surely burst the bubble.

And suddenly, even the sweet escape no longer tastes as sweet. Because that, too, will mean that this ends, that this is over. That reality catches up to her again as Christmas carols fade into the background and the taste of mulled wine is replaced by an energy drink while sitting on the couch alone, to watch some black and white romantic movie.

Because that will be Brienne’s not ideal but real Christmas this year.

And the little bubble that formed on the Christmas Market will burst to reveal that reality to her again.

And if she were one of the fragile girls, she’d likely shed a tear right at that thought… and at just how pathetic that makes her for even thinking it. She is a woman of realism, however hurtful. Just why get lost in sweet, sweet illusions over mead and mulled wine?

_Snap._

Brienne tears her gaze up as the mistletoe flying through the room apparently now really learns to fly since the knot around the end came apart.

It’s almost as though those things suddenly happened in slow-motion. Nevertheless, Brienne’s mind takes way too long to register the thing flying towards them. Once her mind catches up to the information, she already mentally prepares for catching that thing like some wicked mock-version of a bridal bouquet to embarrass herself and make Ronnet feel like he got proven right, but before she can even make a move, an arm extends before her and catches the mistletoe with ease.

Brienne just stares at Jaime as he holds the thing in his hand, looking at it with a frown.

Well, that is apparently a turn of events she didn’t see coming. Brienne catches a glimpse past Jaime, Irri and Ami – that woman must have cat-like reflexes, getting from one end of the dance floor to the other in no time to seemingly want to snog every man at the party, standing there like ripe fruit ready to be picked or rather, be pulled in for a kiss.

Well, Ronnet will not be proven wrong exactly, but neither will he get to bathe in the feeling of having been totally right, then. Jaime will kiss one of those girls and that means Brienne does apparently not have to use that stupid mistletoe to her _advantage_ , not that she ever had any intention to anyway.

Brienne doesn’t get to finish the train of thought as Jaime suddenly whirls around on the back of the heel, facing towards her as he tosses the mistletoe over his shoulder, into someone’s hands Brienne can’t see as he now almost seems to tower over her, since she leans against slanted metal of the fireplace to make up for that bit of height difference.

Backed into the corner, Brienne can do nothing but react as he leans forward, grabs her chin with the tips of his fingers to pull her mouth to his in the gentlest yet strongest kiss she ever shared in a lifetime, forcing her eyes shut and everything else beyond the corner out of her mind.

There is just them in that cramped space, the heat of their bodies now pressed against each other, the faint taste of mulled wine and its spices, the faint sweetness of mead, the sensation of chapped lips from the cold, warm metal pressing into the back right next to brick stones pleasantly scratching as the kiss deepens, the mistletoe in the back pocket long since forgotten.

His hand coming to rest on the small curve of her waist, hidden beneath her thick knit sweater pushing but one thought into her mind – he _means_ that kiss. It’s _not_ just for display. The _ooohh’s_ and _aaaahhh’s_ long since carry on, hollering “Go Daario” and “Go get your wildling girl, Jonny”. No one cares if they kiss or not, but still he continues, and still she continues.

_He means it. It can’t just be the mead._

After a long moment, Jaime pulls away slightly, breathing hard, some of his bangs falling against Brienne’s forehead.

“I hope that was alright, my lady?” he says between ragged breaths, a feral grin creeping up his lips.

“Quite alright. Very alright… I… can’t complain?” Brienne replies with a frown.

_What does he mean by that?_

_And also… **my lady** , really? _

Jaime laughs out loud, though it comes out more like a roar, leaning into the nape of her neck, enjoying the jump her skin almost seems to make as his skin touches hers.

_No, definitely not just the mead. Or perhaps the Mead of Truth?_

The only thing Jaime knows is that once he caught that thing between his fingers – actually to make sure it doesn’t accidentally hit Brienne, the only thing his mind processed was that he wanted to kiss those lips from which such sweet words had tumbled that whole evening.

And so he did.

But Jaime is a gentleman. He learned the rules of proper _courtship_ , as his Father actually calls it to this day. And normally, it’s not his style to just seize the moment at a trashy Christmas party. Jaime is actually the type of guy who dates first, and only starts kissing after doing some proper… _wooing_.

But this night proves to be crazy anyway, and somehow Jaime finds himself going with the flow of madness, flavored with cinnamon, cardamom, and anise.

And if Jaime is not mistaken, judging by the very responsiveness that met his lips, burning like a fire, Brienne is not at all too much against that idea after all, of just going with the _Christmas Madness_ , if only by stealing mistletoe-kisses cramped into one of the corners of the Martell residence, still holding their empty mugs of mulled wine in hand, though some actually dribbled to the floor during the kissing.

However, there is one thing he had to make certain of – and that is to be sure that she is as much willing for it to continue as he is himself, as he grows increasingly aware.

“What? Did I make a joke?” Brienne asks, wrinkles of confusion spreading on her forehead.

“No, you are just endearing in your gormlessness, Brienne,” he replies.

“Most find that _anything but_ endearing.”

“Well, I am not most men,” Jaime argues, glancing back up to meet her brilliant if still nervous gaze, which seems to ease once her big blue orbs find his. “There are no men like me. So… _I_ find that very endearing indeed.”

“Oh,” is the only thing Brienne can say in reply, puckering her lips as her mind is still busy processing the flood of information, sensations, impressions, wants, needs, desires, fantasies bubbling up from her cup of mulled wine all the way into the furthest corners of her mind, bringing an even darker shade of blush to her cheeks.

“Care for a second serving?” Jaime asks with the feral sort of grin right back in place.

“You… want a second serving?” Brienne questions, but then almost yelps as he assaults her mouth this time, the kiss no longer so gentle, but deeper, much more needing, much more wanting.

If that is his reply, it’s a good comeback, she has to give him that much.

But soon enough the world melts away again as her world morphs to the small space in which she finds herself encapsulated, stuck between the corner… _and Jaime_.

And no, Brienne can’t say she feels in the least uncomfortable by that sort of close proximity, against all odds.

His hand now starts to move on her hip, rubs, strokes, caresses, then presses down again, the tips of his fingers digging into the skin beneath her sweater, his entire body seemingly moving impossibly closer to hers. And Brienne just relishes all of those sensations – because she’s never had anything that intense, that real. She was kissed before, she was touched before, that’s not the thing, but this is… new, this is…

_Better. **Far** better. _

Jaime pulls away again, seemingly earnestly in need to catch his breath, his chest and stomach heaving as though he ran a marathon.

“Shit, woman, no one’s told me you could kiss like that,” Jaime grounds out.

“Likewise,” is all Brienne manages to bring out for a reply.

“That tells me one thing,” Jaime goes on between desperate intakes of air.

“Which is?”

“I should’ve done that a long time ago,” he replies as it dawns on him, just like that.

To think that he could have had such kisses in how long now? When did Brienne start at the company?

_Seven Hells. Seven Heavens. Mother, Father, Warrior, Smith, and the whole damn wicked rest. Holy Santa Claus. Grinch Almighty._

Well, as Brienne said, sometimes you have to miss something to appreciate it. In this rare case, they had to get something to appreciate it, and realize in the retrospective just what they missed out on.

“Oh,” is yet again the only reply Brienne can force herself to say. Jaime lets out a laugh sounding yet again more like a roar, coming from deep within his throat, but then he leans closer to her ear to whisper, “Well, but the night’s still young, is it not? So we can do _some_ … catching up.”

No suggestion, she realizes. A plan. An agenda.

_Maybe this is not the worst night before Christmas after all!_

He presses a gentle kiss to the corner of her mouth, searching her eyes again. “I would honestly rather not break off the moment, but in all sincerity, I need something to… hydrate again. That was… rather _hot_ after all?”

He chuckles. She finds herself laughing along, not even caring for blushing like an idiot anymore. He is flushed as well, so what does it matter?

She made Jaime Lannister blush. Who could have guessed? Not her, that much is for sure. Before they went to the Christmas Market, she was convinced he didn’t even like her.

He draws nonsense patterns on her lower arm as he goes on talking, “So how about I get us some… water or otherwise non-alcoholic beverage before we continue our little… catching up?”

“Alright.”

“Will you stick to one-word sentences for the rest of the evening now?”

“Possibly?”

“Well, alright with me,” Jaime says with a smirk. “For kissing, talking is rather counterproductive anyway.”

He turns. “Make sure no one takes my spot in the meantime. I’ll be back as fast as possible.”

“Sure.”

With that Jaime starts his own half-dance through the crowd of increasingly obscene colleagues. Brienne watches him, sliding the tips of her fingers across her bruised lips, an increasingly bigger growing smile spreading across her mouth.

 _I really can't stay_  
_But, baby, it's cold outside_  
_I got to go away_  
_But baby, it's cold outside_  
_This evening has been_  
_Been hoping that you'd drop in_  
_So very nice_  
_I'll hold your hands, they're just like ice_

The bubble burst, and this remained as reality… it’s a thing of impossibility, but then again… it’s Christmas, well, _almost_ Christmas. So… why not?

Jaime initiated the kiss. No one forced him to kiss her of all people. He could have kissed Irri or Ami, or even Loras if he really was so much against kissing Brienne. He wanted her, still wants her.

Jaime Lannister wants to kiss her.

Brienne chuckles to herself as she lets the words resonate inside her mind, echoing to the deepest corners of her brain.

Jaime, meanwhile, made his way to the table with the drinks, trying to find a bottle of water in the vast array of alcoholic beverages. He rather never would have left that corner, but he had to realize that the region below his bellybutton enjoyed the attention a bit too much, and really, he can’t have such a scene around the colleagues. Not for his sake, he could care less, but Brienne gives something on it, and she would be embarrassed not in the way he loves, all blushes and squirming, but rather mortified, to the point that the catching up would come to an abrupt ending. So better get some tension out now, trying to calm down before continuing.

Because Jaime becomes increasingly aware that he doesn’t just want to kiss that stubborn woman again, but that he wants to continue kissing her. So, he has to play it slow. She is skittish enough at things as normal conversation already. Maybe he can convince her of walking her home… or maybe manage to get them out fast enough to have a drink in a more silent bar than this orgy… or maybe he is getting _really_ lucky tonight and Christmas, for once in a lifetime, is not an utter bitch to him?

Jaime growls at the thought, the images of coaxing now some certain other reactions out of her flitting across his eyes, his grunt overplayed by _Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree_ blaring over the loudspeakers and guys hollering at Margaery to kiss one of the other girls because they are all just horny teenagers watching too much porn and don’t get laid often enough.

Rockin’ a _certain something_ under the Christmas tree would be more to Jaime’s liking, but he won’t push his luck unless he is sure that Brienne… is into being pushed a bit further.

For that, the promise of continuing what sparked up with a sudden intensity between him and her is just too good to be true.

“Now, where is the water? Or maybe a round of champagne?” he mutters to himself, his eyes busily scanning for something to rehydrate.

Brienne still finds herself staring at the ground, smirking like an idiot – though she doesn’t really care, which is even more surprising. Legs folded, she leans against the wall, taking up the required space for Jaime to sneak back in once he comes back – hopefully soon enough.

While she would still rather block out the _Christmas Orgy_ in front of her, she starts to care less and less about this miserable day before Christmas, even the images of herself alone on the couch on Christmas day, the real version of what her Christmas is likely going to be this year, no longer as intrusive, as bothersome.

Because a small, humming voice sings a different song – not really caring about what is to be tomorrow, when you can enjoy what you have right at this moment.

Isn’t Christmas always like that for her? The day before Christmas is the actual Christmas while the day of Christmas is more of the aftermath, the echo of it? While it will be a different sort of echo, she might just as well call this her early Christmas present, without bothersome wrapping, safe for the clothes they are wearing.

“Did you spike the drink, you tell me?”

Brienne tears her gaze up to see the familiar mob of red hair, her smile dropping at once.

Can’t that guy just leave her that small moment of happiness?

If only she’d ignored him.

“No, I didn’t,” Brienne argues. “But if you were so kind, I’d politely ask you to just leave me alone.”

“You and the Golden Boy, you mean? I mean, that he started kissing you came as a surprise, I will give you that, but then again… might be he is just really in need or really drunk.”

“If you want to believe that.”

“You know, I kept thinking about what you said to me,” Ronnet goes on.

“I hope you didn’t break your head,” Brienne says, her gaze pulling past Ronnet to try to spot Jaime to fill in the blank again – and push Ronnet out of it.

“Well, I just wanted to say that maybe you’ve been right about it. About me being a lesser man and all, but then I had another thought.”

“Two at a time? _Amazing_.”

“Well, if I am a lesser man because I can’t compare to that Golden Boy, maybe you should ask yourself how you compare to all the women here, and if you ain’t as little of a woman as I am a man, according to your measure – and ask yourself if it’s really the _person_ Brienne of Tarth he wants, or just the eager mouth returning his kisses, with the promise of a cunt to sink his cock into.”

“You don’t know me. You don’t know him. If you think that you can hurt me with those words like you did back in high school, you’re mistaken. In contrast to you, I did my share of growing up,” Brienne says, though she feels cold spread throughout her.

Because one thought sticks after all.

What is she compared to all the other women?

What is she compared to them if Jaime is the one to measure? Because if _Brienne_ measures herself… she doesn’t get _good_ measures. Too tall, too mannish, too ugly, not girly enough, dull, not funny, not charming, gormless, clumsy, freakish.

But does _Jaime_ think like that, too? Or does he have another measure for her? And is it more favorable or harsher towards her?

And just why does she think about that now when she should give less than a rat’s shit on friggin’ Ronnet Connington and his wicked games?

“You’re just jealous of Jaime.”

“Not for kissing you. I thought I made that clear a long time ago.”

“Plentily so. But you are jealous of him because he is all the things you are not. So, you tell me, how do you think do you stack up against him, measuring yourself? Or what if Jaime were to measure?” Brienne fires back.

_If you want to wound a guy, you have to take him by his manly pride._

“Right by the balls,” as Goodwin used to say. “Don’t wait for guys to treat you kindly in battle. If you have a chance to fight dirty, fight dirty. Because neither will they waste a chance to land a blow below the waistline, girl.”

“And I mean, riddle me this, Ronnet: You spent the entire evening trying to destroy the night for me, when you could have tried to hook up with any of those girls, or at least trying to catch a mistletoe. So, the question I ask myself – did you just obsess about me so much that even after all those years, you can’t forget about someone you wanted to stay so small to you by comparison, or is it that you just know that no one wants to kiss or fuck you, no matter if you leave the lights on or not?”

Well, that much is for sure, the alcohol tends to loosen up Brienne’s tongue a lot.

Ronnet just stares at her, obviously caught off-guard by her sharp replies, because he is so used to her silence or ignorance.

Brienne finally catches sight of Jaime as he makes his way through the last rows of people at various stages of intoxication, wriggling two soft plastic water bottles above his head. She can see him frowning, gesturing at Ronnet. She shrugs with a grimace.

“Ladies, here’s a new round of drinks!” Hyle’s voice rings out as he maneuvers a tray with mugs and glasses above his head, motioning towards the group of girls to Brienne’s right, already waving and giggling at him.

He doesn’t realize when Ronnet trips him up, giving him a gentle push in the right direction. The tray is sent flying, and with it the mugs and glasses of eggnog, mulled wine, and grog, most of it across Brienne’s front, some over her head, some just crash to the ground.

“Whoops,” Ronnet says with the darkest of grins.

Brienne stares at him for a moment, growing increasingly conscious of the fact that all eyes are now on her – and that Jaime’s specifically are on her, covered almost from head to toe with all those Christmas-y drinks.

“Shit, Brienne, that wasn’t on purpose,” Hyle calls out, still scrambling on the ground. Brienne holds out her hand to him to help him stand.

“I know,” she says softly. He is an ass, but not such an ass – he actually had the decency at some point to apologize for the bet. The ass is actually that red-haired devil grinning at her still.

“Did I hurt you?” Hyle asks with a grimace. Brienne shakes her head, before muttering “excuse me” and rushing off to the bathroom.

Soon enough, the music rises again and people likely return to orgies and collecting gossip material for the office, most notably Brienne of Tarth, the soiled, great cow. Or whatever nickname they will come up with for her.

Gladly, she can spot the next best bathroom without much trouble, ever the more relieved to find it empty. She walks over to the marble sink with a golden viper faucet, taking a good look at herself in the mirror, eggnog and mulled wine dribbling down her neck and sweater, a blotch of red forming on the side of her cheek where one of the mugs with gladly not too hot wine struck her.

Brienne does quick work to remove her sweater, relieved to see that she didn’t actually get any burns, just red skin due to the irritation that will soon enough fade away. She tosses the sweater into the sink before grabbing one of the towels to dab into the cold water to run across the sticky and heated up stretches of skin of her arms and hands, and her midsection, hidden beneath her cotton white tank-top, which gladly didn’t soak through yet.

So much to her little bubble.

So much to living the moment.

 _Of course_ , the moment on Brienne tries to forget about all odds, the odds come to smack her across the face. With mulled wine, eggnog, and grog.

She should have just stayed home.

Suddenly, takeaway, sweatpants, and some Christmas movie sound damn well ideal.

_Better than this by far anyway._

Brienne tries her best not to cry, but she feels damn well like it now. She feels humiliated, and that in front of Jaime just after there was… a spark, something, anything.

 _Whatever_.

Life is apparently still high school, no matter how hard she tries to get out of it.

She will forever be Brienne the Beauty, the great lumbering beast, the sow in silk – or knitted sweaters for the matter, freak…

Brienne is ripped out of her thoughts when suddenly the door bursts open and Jaime stalks inside, head lowered, shoulders raised, his hair standing up as though electricity ran right through his body. Brienne can do nothing much but stare at him.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, no, _demands_ to know.

“No, just a bit of skin irritation. It’ll be gone in a short while, I suppose,” Brienne replies slowly.

“Good,” he says. “We’ll have to leave as soon as possible.”

“ _We_?” Brienne repeats numbly.

And here she thought this would be the strangest sort of goodbye, with the faint hope he’d call her a taxi or so, to then carry on with one of the girls who didn't get publicly humiliated in front of the entire staff.

“What? You want to stay?” he retorts.

“No, it’s just… you don’t have to leave, it’s…,” Brienne argues, her voice trailing off.

“You think _I_ want to stay?” he huffs. “Okay, scratch that. No, I don’t want to stay.”

Brienne’s eyes wander further down his body, to one of his hands… with blossoming bruises.

“What did you do?” she asks.

“Doesn’t matter,” he quips, but then his voice softens somewhat. “I guess the sweater is no longer wearable?”

“No.”

He nods before stripping out of his own red sweater, leaving him with a crisp white button-up shirt underneath as he holds out the sweater to Brienne. “C’mon, we really should get going.”

Brienne puts on the sweater wordlessly, stuffing her own in one of the empty trash bags before she finds herself being pulled out of the bathroom, Jaime’s grip on her arm deft, and while strong, careful not to hurt her in any way.

“Jaime?”

But he just keeps going, and Brienne has to walk along. They come back to the dancefloor slash living room, and Brienne is shocked at the apparent silence, safe for some low humming, unrecognizable Christmas tune.

Jaime pulls her across the dancefloor, the people readily moving aside as though he was a wild animal to be afraid of, minding to keep their distance. Brienne’s eyes stare back as she catches sight of something red on the ground.

And on the ground sits Ronnet, blood dribbling down his face, some girl holding out a packet of tissues to him he readily stuff against mouth and nose.

_Jaime punched Ronnet?_

Once they are across the dancefloor, Jaime grabs both their coats before bolting for the door, Janos moving aside like a scared chicken upon seeing the oldest Lannister son planting himself in front of him with a lethal glare.

Cold air hits her face once they are outside. Brienne blinks, then sees Jaime holding the coat out to her wordlessly. She takes it hurriedly to wrap herself in the warm material – only to be pulled along and away the moment she zipped her jacket.

_This is getting ridiculous._

“Jaime, could we now take a moment to talk about this?” Brienne asks, growing increasingly worried and angry with the man. He can’t just drag her along like some dog on a leash, _Seven Hells_.

But the man keeps going.

“My place is right around the block,” he replies in turn, only adding more confusion to Brienne’s already jumbled mind.

“Your place? Jaime, stop now,” she demands, but he doesn’t, so Brienne runs her heels into the snowy ground, bring them to an abrupt halt. “Stop. Now.”

And now he does indeed, turning towards her. Once his eyes meet hers, they seem to lose some of the angry intensity, growing softer by the second.

“What in the Seven Hells is going on with you?” she demands.

“I have a first aid kit at my place, and better spare clothes than that,” Jaime explains, gesturing at her.

“I told you, it’s nothing.”

“Not nothing, most definitely not nothing,” Jaime grumbles. “That bloody asshole.”

“Jaime, why did you punch Ronnet?”

“What? Why did I punch him? Obviously I punched that son of a bitch after he let Hyle crush into you with the drinks. I damn well saw that this was no accident,” Jaime growls.

“Why would you do that?”

“I just said it. He did that, that’s why I did it,” Jaime replies.

_What’s so hard to understand about that?_

“But why would you punch him for it?”

“Why would I friggin’ not?! That asshole didn’t get enough beat-up because Hyle, the butt crack, pulled me away before I could knock him out to the point that he could hear the angels sing. I should just go back and…,” he growls, but Brienne stops him, “Jaime, I am not injured, Ronnet is an ass, and has been since we went to high school together… was likely born that way. He just tried to get back at me after something I said.”

“ _Just_? He could have severely injured you. How was he to know that the wine was not friggin’ boiling?” Jaime demands.

Brienne bites her lip.

_That’s actually a valid point._

Ronnet likely didn’t care, though. That guy never cares, never did.

_But Jaime… does._

“So you explain to me – how could I _not_ give that whiney dick the smack-down he deserved? Or rather, explain to me just what the fuck that asshole is up to with you in the first place,” Jaime hisses, chest heaving with growing fury.

Because the moment he saw it, the first impetus was to see after Brienne, but once Jaime motioned over, Ronnet saw him and instantly started talking to him as though he was in any position to go boasting about possibly injuring a woman, telling him that he just “dodged a bullet” for Jaime by sparing him the troubles of hanging out with that “freak”.

Jaime didn’t let him finish the second sentence. The fist flew before that asshole could even open his filthy mouth another time. That he squealed like a pig was surprisingly fitting for that bastard, crying for mercy… and likely for his mommy and daddy.

Brienne sucks in a deep breath. “As I said, some trouble back from high school.”

“C’mon, it’s more than that. That guy is bonkers,” Jaime huffs.

“You don't have to tell me,” she snorts, rolling her eyes.

“Well, but you should tell me. I’d like to know just why that guy thinks he gets to insult you, possibly injure you – or rather, why you seemingly let him?”

Brienne sets her jaw at that. “I don’t let him. That is the exact opposite of what I did tonight. I called him upon it, and he got back at me. Because that’s how it always is. Normally, I am smarter than that, minding my own business, ignoring that dickhead instead of giving him new fuel. It’s not that I keep my mouth shut because I am scared of him, I’m just tired of this quarrel flaring back up again and again. _I_ am done with it. _He_ is not.”

“Yeah, obviously. But what isn’t he done with?” Jaime asks.

“That’s none of your business,” Brienne argues defensively.

_She never tells that story. For that it is too humiliating._

“Well, I'd say the bruises on my wrist speak a different language. It became my friggin’ business just now,” Jaime retorts.

“I didn’t ask you to punch him in the face.”

“No, I punched him in the face because of you, though. Not nearly as hard as would be sufficient, however. So now, what is it between you two?” Jaime insists.

Brienne lets out a long sigh.

_It’s no use._

Jaime won’t relent until she tells him.

And after that eggnog incident, Brienne likely can’t be any more humiliated than she already is. So why not give it one last shove?

“The pitiful truth? We went to the same high school. He was in his senior year, I was a sophomore. Our high school always holds one of those awful Winter Balls, which in my humble opinion are even worst than Christmas parties.”

“Oh God,” he moans.

_Those were sent from the Seven Hells for sure._

“My thought exactly. So what happened was this: Normally, I never attended because _obviously_ , no one invites the ugly girl, beating any guy in any sport… and beating any guy who was a poor sport,” Brienne explains, shaking her head. “But then, out of the blue, I got a fancy card from Ronnet, asking me if I were to be his date for the Winter Ball. And I was just so overwhelmed by it that I no longer thought straight. He even texted me before. It was like a dream. I bought myself a stupid blue dress and high heels. I told my father, who was short before going on a business trip. He was so overjoyed by this that he embraced me and gave me the feeling that he was proud of me, as though Ronnet Connington taking you to the Winter Ball was some sort of _achievement_ … because it _was_ , for the likes of me. He wasn’t the football captain, but he played football, he was the captain of the basketball team… he was… one of the popular guys. And he was all shy about me and asked me out with a card. It was an achievement. A _massive_ achievement. I prided myself with it.”

She licks her lips.

She was _such_ a fool.

“Then the night came. He sent me a text to meet me outside, _alone_. I thought that maybe he’d want to kiss me for a greeting and was just afraid of my Septa. I was definitely stupid like that, because back in the day, romantic movies and romance novels were very high on my priority list, against the odds of always having been rather boyish. So I went out, in that stupid dress, staggering on the stupid high heels, believing myself to live through one of my novels. There was a limousine. And there he stood, in tuxedo and everything. And then I heard his buddies in the car, laughing their asses off. I was irritated at first, but then I saw other girls as well. He then revealed his _great scheme_. That it was all fake, and that I must have been stupid to believe that someone like him would ever date someone like me. As ugly as I am. He tossed the boutonnière with the rose to my feet and said that’d be all I’d ever have of him before joining his friends in the car, sticking his tongue down some chick’s throat to prove his point before they drove off.”

Jaime just looks at her wordlessly.

_And there go any last remains of the bubble._

“And because I felt so utterly ashamed of myself, I took out my phone, called myself a cab and let the taxi driver give me a ride to the village I told you about, crying my eyes out for the rest of the evening,” Brienne goes on with a strange sort of disgust.

“Why didn’t you go back inside?” he asks quietly, all anger seemingly having left him.

“Because my Septa was there, and I didn’t want her to see that she was right about me. Because she told me that I should be careful and that guys will normally only ever want me because they want to be in my dad’s favor. Well, Ronnet didn’t try to come into my father’s favor, but she was still right in the end. And I couldn’t… take that. I couldn’t have that additional disappointment.”

“And your father?”

“He was on the business trip… I didn’t tell him.”

“So you covered up for Ronnet already then?” Jaime grimaces.

“ _No_ , that’s the thing. I never even thought about him. I thought about myself. I felt shamed because I let myself be played like that and because I didn’t want my father to give me that pitiful look once he was to know what had happened. I didn't want him to be disappointed in me. I was a teenager trying to please her dad, alright? And I was also pretty sure my father would have ended Ronnet.”

“I support that, _strongly_ ,” Jaime grumbles.

“I just never wanted my father to fight my fights for me.”

“So you just let it go or what?” Jaime huffs.

“No, actually not. I got my personal revenge a few months later,” Brienne replies. “He just never knew it was me.”

“What did you do?”

“In a word: _laxatives_.”

“No way,” Jaime finds himself laughing, despite the anger he still feels, and the sheer want to just take her and give her a kiss to make her forget about that whole issue.

“ _Way_. It lasted until P.E. until the _Happy Shitting Pills_ set in… He didn’t make it to the bathroom in time.”

Jaime can’t help but laugh again. One should never underestimate Brienne of Tarth.

“That is… pretty good, actually,” he laughs. Still waters, especially sapphire blue ones, run _very_ deep.

“For me, it was done after that. Some time after high school, I even told my father. He still wants to end Ronnet whenever the topic comes up, but… well, he lives no longer in the Stormlands, so Father lacks opportunity… but _that’s it_. Ronnet never moved past it. He still wants to humiliate me about this thing, because he got pissed that I didn’t shy away, didn’t change schools or whatever. I was a nuisance to him because he didn’t get to me the way he hoped he had done. Well, and of course there are just some guys who never grow up. He is that kind of a person. And that is the whole pitiful story that lead up to this tonight. Just stupid Brienne believing herself a match to the popular guys only to get kicked down for it, though she should know better.”

“I hope you don’t compare me to that asshole by any means when you refer to the _popular guys_ ,” Jaime says in a lower voice.

“I know you are not like him, _at all_ ,” Brienne replies.

“But judging by your reactions, you thought I’d bail out the moment that tray was sent flying, no?” he argues.

“I wouldn’t begrudge you for it, that’s the thing,” Brienne replies, her voice growing fainter by the second.

“Let me get this straight for you, then: If I wanted to bail out, I wouldn’t have kissed you twice, with the intention of doing it far more often if that asshole had not destroyed everything. I don't care for what any of the guys or any of the colleagues have to say. It’s not just that I don't concern myself with their opinions, it’s that I make up my own mind, no matter what those bitches may say to differ. So, when I kiss you, I kiss you because I mean it. And if I tell you that I punched that guy because of you, then I punched him because of you, because it’s you.”

“Jaime, I…,” she stammers helplessly, at a lack of words, thoughts…

Jaime lets out a sigh. “Look, I know, this seems now all kinds of rushed because we started kissing before we started dating, which I may add, is not my usual routine, I am very traditional in that regard, but… it’s not like we are strangers to each other. I said it and I mean it, you are one of the few people I enjoy talking to… I guess it’s just that tonight… put some things in perspective for me, driving me to the point that I defend my girl against a dick like that.”

“Your… _girl_.”

“Call it however you like. I just want to be clear on those matters: I kissed you because I meant it. I punched that guy because he did you harm and because I care about you. And if not for that whole mess, I’d hopefully gotten you to the point by now where we may consider taking our catching up session _somewhere else_.”

Brienne finds herself blushing furiously at that, while at the same time she is more than touched by those words. Because… no man has ever bothered to _defend her honor_. The guys she dated normally never really cared, believing that just because she is accustomed to being called names it doesn’t wound her in the slightest. While it doesn’t cut deep, it still always scratches, though.

And Jaime? He punches that guy into the ground, after just one evening together as not-office personas.

As themselves.

There is really no denying it – there are no men like Jaime Lannister.

Brienne kisses him before she can even process the thought of it, overtaken by her emotions and bad memories seeping out of her like the eggnog seeps into the trash bag in her hand. Jaime instantly pulls her closer to him, the bruises on his hand momentarily forgotten. The kiss is not as passionate as the last they shared, but no less intense. It’s deeper – but with emotion this time.

They break away after a long moment. Brienne’s eyes remain fixed on his.

“Can we still debate about going to my place to continue this? Because as much as I enjoy it, I am freezing my ass off in that weather,” Jaime comments. Brienne finds herself laughing in earnest this time.

Just like that, the drama seems so far away.

And with it the _Christmas Orgy_.

Ronnet.

Even the wicked mead.

“That’s alright with me.”

He grabs her hand this time, gently, though, and the two make their way over to Jaime’s home, and Brienne is more than glad to leave all of that madness behind her. 

Soon enough, the music fades away, and only the sound of their footsteps echoes in her head, the crunching sound whenever they step on a patch of fresh snow.

Making their _bitter-_ sweet escape at last.


	3. Of Fluff Pillows Made of Fresh Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne make their way to his apartment. 
> 
> Things... go on from there. 
> 
> With a bit of fluff, also thanks to pillows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Thanks for further sticking around despite the madness I put you through with this Christmas Craziness. 
> 
> This one's a bit shorter, but I had to cut it in some way, and that seemed to be the thematically most fitting choice. 
> 
> Thanks for comments and kudos alike. ♥
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy anyway.

Time flies by so fast that Brienne has to take a moment before her mind comprehends that she stands just outside Jaime Lannister's apartment door, watching him as he fumbles with the keys to his apartment, which is the only moment in which he let go of her hand, otherwise having held on to it as though it was the only means avaliable to him to make sure she doens't run away, doesn't slip away from him - though Brienne has to realize she has no such intention, at all.

The key finally turns in the lock and Brienne's eyes catch sight of likely the biggest loft she's seen in her entire life. While her apartment isn't small either, after all, she comes from a wealthy family and her Father would rather die than have her live in one of those dingy apartments down at Flea Bottom, but Jaime's... is _enormous_ , simply a vast space, filled only with minimalistic, shining furniture in black marble and high-luster surfaces, with a bit of gold every now and then.

Brienne still goes on taking in the view as Jaime pulls her inside, closing the door while Brienne goes on looking a bit longer, walking further into the room. However, that is when her eyes catch something to her left, and she has no choice but to fix her gaze on it.

“A _fake_ Christmas tree, _really_?” she blurts out, staring at the thing in the left corner, right next to the massive flat screen.

“What?”

“That thing is awful!”

“No, it’s most wonderful, wench! They come readily decorated so all you have to do is dust it off, stick the rods together and there you have Christmas spirit right in your living room, instantaneously,” Jaime argues.

“… Did you seriously spray it with fake pine odor on tops?” Brienne makes a face once the smell evades her nose.

“For matters of _fake_ _authenticity_. If the Christmas fair can do it, so can I!”

“For a guy hating Christmas, the room’s still _rather_ decorated,” Brienne points out, looking around. He even put up some lights, even if only just a few.

“Shocking, I know. But I have to get _some_ sort of Christmas vibe from somewhere, because sure as hell I won’t get that cozy feeling on the inside from my family. And since I am not getting it from them, the loft will have to do. And please don’t tell me that you actually bother buying an actual tree.”

“Every year,” Brienne argues, her mind starting to hum pleasantly as she finds herself yet again in this strange comfort that makes all the rest, all the humiliation, Christmas fairs, and _Christmas Orgies_ , blur away.

There suddenly is the bubble again, and Brienne just wants to sink into it.

“For that we both started out under the premise of hating Christmas, we seem to have some Christmas spirit in us after all,” Jaime comments.

“Seems like it,” Brienne replies, taking off her coat. Jaime wordlessly takes it from her to hang on the rack, only to wince once he starts using his injured hand.

“We should ice that.”

“It’s alright,” he argues.

“Do you have a fridge with ice or do I have to get some snow from outside?” she asks.

“You are not good at listening to orders.”

“You only realize so now?” Brienne snorts. “And in any case, why should I take commands from you in the first place?”

“It's _my_ loft?”

“Fridge with something frozen, yes or no?” she repeats, in a flat voice.

Jaime rolls his eyes. “Over there.”

Brienne maneuvers over into the kitchen, glad to find an ice maker integrated into the fridge, so she gets some ice cubes to stuff into a damped kitchen towel to bring back into the living room, where Jaime took his seat on the massive couch. Brienne sits down beside him, taking his wrist into her hands to press the ice against the bruises. He winces once, but is soon used to the cool sensation, actually quite enjoying her big hands wrapped around his.

 _She has a surprisingly soft touch, not just on her lips._  

“I _really_ don’t think icing it is _that_ necessary,” Jaime says after a while, growing impatient. “I do boxing often enough to know that this is not badly bruised.”

“Where’s the rush? It’s not like you have to be anywhere, do you?” Brienne argues, only to suddenly find herself pressed against the couch, Jaime’s lips back on hers, his good hand running over her arms till it reaches the ice bag to put it on the table without breaking off lip contact just once, leaving a small puddle of melting water underneath.

“ _There_ is the rush,” he replies once he pulls away, relishing her big blue eyes staring at him with the most delicious of blushes creeping up her lips.

“Oh.”

“Back to one-word sentences again?” he laughs.

“Possibly?”

“Good, then you don’t talk back as much,” Jaime chuckles, his grin turning darker by the second. “So, question remains if you want to join into the rush… or not.”

Brienne is still quite busy mulling over the fact that she finds herself underneath likely the most beautiful man she ever laid eyes upon in her entire life, and that against the odds of his foul mouth, there really seems to reside a gentleman beneath all that snark. Not taking advantage of her. Leaving it up to her… punching the man who humiliated her in the face…

_A Christmas Miracle indeed!_

“I can hear those wheels turning inside your head, you know,” he jokes, his good hand absently playing with the hem of her, no, his, sweater. “We can also leave it at that or so, or maybe just kiss a bit longer. Whatever. While I, for my part, feel the rush, _badly_ , I'd understand if you wanted to head home after what happened over at the party.”

_Head home? To a bag of cinnamon-flavored popcorn, tea, and some random DVD from her collection?_

“You mean that,” she says breathlessly.

“Yup,” is the simple reply. Brienne bites her lower lip.

“If you want… I mean… I have nothing against… ugh, _company_?” Brienne brings out, feeling any urge to smack herself for sounding like a stupid teenage girl again. She is an adult, by the Seven, she dated, she did have sex before, but like this, with Jaime towering above her like a lion indeed, she seems to be reduced to a gibberish talking woman making a fool of herself.

The prospect of not being alone is just… making her forget all the rest.

“So, no opposition, _Ms. Tarth_?” he asks in a teasing voice. If he feels any urge to roll his brilliantly shining eyes at her for acting like an awkward teenager, he has the decency not to do so – or comment on it.

“No _opposition_ , no,” Brienne replies slowly, frowning at the sudden change of vocabulary.

“So, it appears we thus made a new treaty,” he goes on in a low, pleased hum. “Though, in both our interest, I’d suggest we don’t wait for the paperwork to get done before we move on to… _business_.”

It is truly the most curious thing to have that Amazon-like woman beneath him, squirming and blushing the shades of red he only knows from the Lannister banners proudly presented at Father’s residence. Because Jaime finds himself not wanting to tear his eyes off of that again any time soon.

He just can’t keep his eyes off of her, against the odds of her not being particularly pretty. But now that he has her there, after having tasted her lips, she seems to shine even in the shadow she casts over her, smoothing out all edges.

And her almost squealy voice as she tries to find the words is the sweetest Christmas carol he’s ever heard – and has no intention to change the lyrics for.

Though _of course_ , he has any intention to make her sing _quite_ a different song now.

He wants to make her sing for him, sing his name.  

“I… agree to that?”

“Splendid!” Jaime calls out happily, suddenly pulling back from her, only to taker her by the wrist. “I therefore suggest that we take this… away from the _conference room_ , to _mediate_ that in a more _private_ setting.”

“Is there a certain reason why we stick to business talk now?” Brienne can’t help but frown.

“Business talk makes me _not_ jump you right at that moment, and I have enough class to take this to the actual bedroom. Much more comfortable there, I am telling you,” is the explanation Brienne receives, leaving her blinking.

With that, he just pulls her along, over to the bedroom, and Brienne finds that smile she felt creeping up her lips when he left her to get the drinks back at the party, the weightlessness it came with, allowing him to pull her along, only to draw her in for a kiss once they crossed the threshold, only to turn her around so he can push her towards and onto the bed, with its crisp white cotton sheets and a massive heap of **Fluff** pillows that feel like fresh snow without the cold against Brienne’s heated skin.

Brienne smiles against his lips once he crawls atop of her, having rid himself of his button-up shirt already, leaning down for a deep kiss.

What do people say? _Carpe Diem_? Seize the day? _Something_ like that.

Well, Brienne now seizes the night, seizes the moment, the night before Christmas, the bubble of white fluff around them, encapsulating them, until there is really just her and Jaime in it, laying bare, skin to skin, each’s heart beating so strongly within the chest that the other can feel it echoing into one’s own ribcage.

She gets lost in his eyes since he does not avert his gaze, searches her gaze as though it was the only thing in the world beside their voices and shouts growing into one as they move into each other.

Brienne hears her name rolling like thunder from his lips, and not once did she love the sound of her own name being spoken as much as she does right at this moment, before all just turns white before her eyes, as though a snowstorm rose within her, only to burst out, like a snow globe falling to the ground, shattering, crashing, forcing her eyes open, back on his, the smile in them, the twinkle, before both collapse, still entangled, breathing hard, breathing as though they were still one, as though the other was the only reason to go on breathing.

Jaime pulls her to him, as close as he can, relishing the warmth she radiates, the glow she emits as though there was a light within her that only those get to see who know her little secret, that there is a strange beauty, a curious sort of grace hidden beneath stretches of freckled skin and scowls once all barriers, all walls fall around her, when everything that seems hard turns soft and malleable in one’s hand, if only you hold on tight, if only you don’t let go.

The bruises on his wrist hum so unrecognizably that they are all forgotten by the sensation of her around him.

What a waste that he waited so long for this…

Jaime strokes his index finger over the still pinkish cheek of hers where the mug hit her, but even the anger won’t return, as relaxed as she looks once her breath starts to even out. He cups her chin to pull her in for a soft, chaste kiss.

She smiles at him softly, and he grins back.

It feels as though they have done this a hundred times already, when in fact… all happened within a night, a twisted, wicked night like this. There is a familiarity to her that Jaime cannot pinpoint, a private symmetry that only presented itself to him once the right light was cast upon her.

“Oh,” she says after a long moment of just stealing moments, lying in each other’s arms, thieving the last rays of the afterglow. “It started snowing again.”

Jaime cranes his neck slightly to look out the window. And in fact, big, white blotches of white fluff slowly, soundlessly dance outside in the darkness.

“Indeed,” he says, a small smirk creeping up his lips. “So we’ll have white Christmas after all. The weather forecast actually warned that the last snow was the one from three days ago.”

“That’s what I heard, too,” Brienne agrees, transfixed by that tranquil sort of dance, the most graceful dance she ever knew.

Jaime takes another good look at the snowflakes before letting his head sink into the fluff pillows again, pulling Brienne closer to him again, though she gives a small surprised squeal.

“Well, the snow’s going to stay there anyway. I rather enjoy the rare display I got right here with me,” he mutters into the nape of her neck. Brienne can feel the smirk on his lips mapping itself on her skin there, and it brings a smile to her lips as well.

“And now it’s time to sleep a bit.”

“Is that so?” she chuckles softly.

“Mhm,” he mumbles, his eyes already drifting close, though the smug grin stays in place, if a little lazy so. “To get my strengths back. The night’s still young. And as I said… _lots_ of catching-up to do still.”

For emphasis, he presses his crotch a wee bit forward. Brienne blushes furiously, but chooses not to comment, though Jaime’s smirk is telling that he knows, even with eyes closed, just what face she is currently making.

“So now, sleep,” he mumbles, eyes closed, content, lazy smirk on his lips. Brienne blows out a long breath before easing down completely, submerging into the warmth, the comfort of his arms wrapped around her as though they were the only people on the entire planet.

“Good night, Jaime.”

“Good night, Brienne.”

* * *

Brienne wakes up to the sound of a car honking. She bolts up in bed, running a hand across her face, grimacing at the odd texture of her hair, all sticky and likely going up all kinds of directions.

This is not _her_ apartment, though.

Brienne knits her eyebrows quizzically, glancing at the cotton white sheets and piles of pillows almost engulfing her entirely, only to glance down herself to realize that she is apparently as naked as on her first namesday.

She runs her hand absently down her face, over her lips, suddenly tasting the faintest hint of mead and mulled wine, and just like that, it all returns to her.

The Christmas fair.

The carved wooden amulet.

Lewd Christmas carols.

The mead stand.

The _Christmas Orgy_ over at Martells’.

Mistletoes and surprise kisses.  

Eggnog, grog, and mulled wine all over her.

Ronnet smirking – and then crying like the little bitch he is, bleeding.

Memories she’d rather forget about.

Rushing to the loft, being pulled along.

Ice packs melting.

A sudden rush.

And then a blur of warm white.

And Jaime with her, around her, in her, enveloping her.

 _Jaime_.

She sits up in bed at once, looking around for her clothes. She finds the white button-up shirt Jaime abandoned first thing they got into the bedroom on the floor… along with her panties, though for _some_ reason, her jeans remain gone. But no matter, better than nothing, Brienne contemplates. She puts on the panties and starts buttoning up the shirt as she stands up to go looking for him.

She just has to make sure this was not just a dream, to find some random dude in the kitchen now who is _not_ Jaime, only to reveal that she got so drunk last night that she made the whole thing up inside her head. Brienne peeks her head out of the bedroom, out into the now even larger seeming living room of the enormous loft, trying to spot something living, or rather someone who is hopefully not some stranger who took her over to his place.

“Awake at last, wench?”

Brienne whirls around, staggering out of the bedroom, into the living room, to see Jaime standing in the kitchen, pouring two cups of coffee.

She lets the smallest of sighs of relief because that means she didn’t just make this up inside her head. This is Jaime Lannister. It’s all good. She didn’t just dream herself away in a drunken frenzy.

_This night happened._

Brienne can’t seem to get her jaws apart, instead just draws closer to him, as though she has to make sure that this, too, is not just a dream. And to her surprise, Jaime takes the mugs to walk around the kitchen counter to cover the remaining distance, holding out one of the cups out to her. She takes it with still uncertain hands, frowning once she sees his eyes leaving hers to travel further down her body.

“Damn, woman, you have to give me a warning before walking up to me like that – _unless_ you want me to take you right on the kitchen counter.”

“W, what?” Brienne stammers, feeling heat rise back to her cheeks, involuntarily rubbing her legs together, pulling on the shirt in a futile attempt to cover more of herself.

“Hey, in some regards I am also only just a man,” he argues, wrapping his free hand around her waist, pulling her in for a lazy yet still rather intense growing kiss.

“So you tell me again, how comes you are teasing me here only in your panties?” Jaime asks, pulling away from her lips only slightly, his green eyes glowering.

“I couldn’t find my jeans?”

“ _That_ may be because I put that and the sweater in the washing machine, upon reflection,” Jaime replies, wrinkling his nose. Brienne pushes him in shoulder lightly, to which he chuckles throatily. “Hey, I am just making sure you get your stuff cleaned. I call that quite a service – for which such a view is the minimum pay, I may add.”

“ _Minimum_?” she snorts.

“Absolutely,” he agrees. “Though I am generous like that. A kiss and that view make up for the trouble… _almost_. I mean, we could obviously… add a _tip_ to that.”

“Tip?” she repeats in a low huff, though her quivering chest betrays her along with her growing blush. Jaime pulls her to him another time, only to whisper into her ear, “So? Kitchen counter after all? I can make room in _no_ time.”

“Let’s start with a coffee first, shall we?” Brienne argues, trying her best to get some of her composure back. Or else that smug smile won’t ever wash off his face again.

“Tease,” he says, puckering his lips.

Brienne tiptoes over to one of the barstools with red leather to sit down on it. Jaime walks past her, way too closely to be by accident, before rounding the kitchen counter.

“Sugar or milk?” he asks, already going through the cabinet.

“Just milk, thank you.”

“I should have remembered that,” he chuckles. “Miss Tarth is way too healthy to take sugar in her coffee.”

He slides the container over to her. Brienne pours some into the cup, watching absently as the swirls of white extend in the cup like tendrils caught in a whirlpool, making the color lighter by the second.

“So, I suppose you got to grab some shut-eye after all. I am already no morning person, but there was no way of waking you up, even though I did some push-ups, if only to show off. Small wonder that you slept like a stone, however. We were… quite busy last night,” he goes on. “So your _exhaustion_ stands to reason.”

“ _Busy_ , right,” Brienne replies with a snort, curling her lips.

“I call that the best way of exercise. Very good for the stamina,” Jaime says with a smug grin.

Brienne rolls her eyes, taking a long sip from the coffee, which tastes heavenly, almost as good as Jaime’s…

Now she is starting, too, as it seems.

_Seven Hells._

He is already rubbing off on her.

She watches on as Jaime takes up his mug to walk back around the counter to take up the seat next to her, not seeming to mind for their legs to touch lightly.

In fact, judging by the way his eyes keep being fixed on her legs, he seems to enjoy himself quite alright, which still feels very alien to Brienne, to have a man as handsome as Jaime look at her with… want and need… but it also gives her a strange sort of warm feeling spreading across her belly, reaching further down.

_A Christmas miracle indeed._

She watches on with fascination as Jaime absent-mindedly takes one of the candy canes from the bowel with Christmas sweets set up on the counter while his eyes remain fixed on her legs… licking his lips.

_Yeah, most definitely a Christmas miracle!_

The Ghost of Christmas Present seems to have taken control of Jaime Lannister’s brain, leaving him with just her legs on his mind.

“You know, I have to admit something to you,” he suddenly says.

“Which would be?”

“Well, more of a warning, that is. After last night, I don’t think there is _any_ way that I won’t keep track on those legs over at the office ever again,” he says. Brienne’s eyes are still fixed on the fact that Jaime now starts to stir the candy cane in his coffee.

“Whatever. I think you’ll do fine. I normally wear pants at the office, as you might be able to recall,” Brienne snorts.

“Can we debate about mini skirts from now on?”

“No?”

“Pencil skirts?” he bargains.

“Not in the Seven Hells and beyond,” Brienne replies resolutely.

“Oh, c’mon,” he moans.

“Think about it like this: So long I keep wearing my pants, you are far less distracted, and don’t we need you sharp on the job?” she argues.

“I can multi-task!” he retorts with a smile.

“Which is why you keep stirring candy cane into your coffee, confusing it with a spoon?” Brienne points out, nodding at his cup.

Jaime tilts his head to the side, realizing that indeed he has this white-red striped thing in hand instead of a spoon. He turns back in the chair to face her.

“I like my coffee like that!” he insists. “There’s nothing better than candy cane coffee on Christmas day!”

“Drink it,” Brienne says, nudging her chin in direction of the mug.

Jaime puckers his lips before he takes up the mug, because apparently, he does seem to never let a challenge go once he gets it, and takes a big swig.

Brienne snorts once she can see his entire face curling at the taste.

“You can spit it out now,” she adds with a grin. Jaime doesn’t have to be told twice before spitting back into the mug, putting it aside.

“That was perhaps the most disgusting thing I ever tasted. Mint and coffee don’t work for me. Blegh.”

“Which proves my point that any distraction of that sort will result in your brain stopping to operate, which would be harmful to business.”

“You might be right,” he shrugs, still shuddering from the taste on his tongue. Brienne holds out her cup to him. “To wash it down.”

“Thank you,” he says, before taking a swig to wash the last remains of minty grossness away.

Jaime can’t remember ever having had such a bad coffee, but the view still makes up for all of it.

“Well, it might be for the better after all,” Jaime goes on. “I wouldn’t want everyone to get that exclusive view. I worked for it, _hard_.”

Brienne rolls her eyes at him, but then has to squeal when he runs his fingers over the exposed skin of her legs.

“Stop now.”

“You don’t sound very convincing,” he teases. “Because it sounds much more like ‘carry on, _please_ , Jaime’.”

“You go on believing that,” Brienne huffs.

“We both know that I can coax just those sweet little words out of you,” Jaime argues with a dark grin. “To have you begging…”

“I also remember something similar from last night that apparently came from _your_ mouth,” Brienne retorts with a grin. Jaime laughs out loud at that. “It’s always a pleasure arguing with you, Brienne.”

“Likewise.”

And in fact... it is. Arguing with him... is fun. It's easy, comfortable all of a sudden.

His fingers continue trailing a while longer, drawing more nonsense patterns on the exposed skin, earning Brienne round after round of goosebumps as she goes on pretending not to care, sipping her coffee. However, at some point, he just rests his hand on her thigh, and Brienne knows at once that it’s no longer teasing. He searches her eyes. She puts the mug down, looking at him, waiting for him to say whatever it is he has to say.

“Alright, I have a true admission to make after all.”

“What is it?” she asks.

“As much as it pains me, because normally, I would take the entire day to spend in the bedroom… and the bathroom, or whatever room of your choosing, catching up on _some_ of that goodness,” he says with a feral grin, but then his voice softens again as he goes on. “But I don’t have the entire day, sadly.”

“Family dinner, right?” Brienne scaffolds, offering a sympathetic grimace.

Jaime is honestly surprised to find that sympathy there, when he already feared for her to be either mad at him, or feel wounded.

“Yeah. And trust me in this, there is hardly anything I would want to keep further away from than this, but…”

“It’s the _family_ , I perfectly understand that,” Brienne tells him earnestly.

“Father requires us to be there rather early… for instructions,” he goes on.

“Really?” Brienne can’t help but make a face. She is used to those awkward dinners, but meeting up for _instructions_? Even her father never hit that level of insanity.

“ _Really_ ,” he says, nodding slowly. “He still thinks he has to lecture us like seven-year-old children, to be sure we don’t talk about that uncle’s break-up or that niece’s marriage going down the drain, or whatever it is Cersei is up to again… the list goes on. As I said, we have the _merriest_ of Christmases at the Lannister Residence.”

“That is rather awful.”

“Tell me about it. I am used to it, have never known it any other way, but that doesn’t make it much better. In which case, I can stay here for a few hours only before I have to head out. I still have to pick up the Christmas presents you were so kind to inspire – then pick up Tyrion because he always pre-games for Christmas because he claims he wouldn't make it through such festivity otherwise, so he can’t drive on his own… and after that, off to the _Seven Hells of Christmas_.”

“Well, you help each other out, Tyrion and you,” Brienne says softly. “That's nice.”

“That’s what brothers do, I guess. He annoys me, I annoy him. I cheat on who goes to Christmas fairs, he cheats on me all the other times… it’s a give and take. But yeah, that means I can’t stay for very long.”

“As I said, that’s perfectly alright with me,” Brienne says with a small smile.

She had no illusions about it that this would be more of a one-night thing anyway. Though maybe they will have another date in the future? Brienne is open for it, but she doesn’t think too far ahead in that regard. For that, the moment is just too precious in itself, for that it’s still too magical and too much out of the movies she enjoys watching so much. So she wouldn’t want to destroy it by fussing of what may become of it in the near or distant future.

Even if nothing becomes of it, this night will forever be something strangely magical for her – and she will hold it dear, no matter what may become of them in the future.

And much to her own surprise, she is… totally at ease with that.

“Is it really? Normally, I rather _take my time_ ,” he goes on, his voice darker towards the end, the smallest of feral grins flashing across his features.  

“Jaime, if I tell you it’s fine, then it is fine. You’ll have to trust me.”

“I trust you,” he replies simply, as though it was a naturally given.

She smiles at him. To most others, such words likely mean nothing, but to her, they mean a whole lot. Because she doesn't easily trust people – but Jaime? She grew to trust him, she even told her of that high school incident that no one but her father ever learned about, and she is glad to know that he came to trust her, too.

“So, my suggestion would be that even if I leave before you are ready for take-off, you take your time and just go once you are all wrapped up. Bronn, the concierge, will then give you a ride to your apartment. Then you don't have to rush anything,” Jaime tells her. “Sounds good?”

He just doesn’t want to appear to her as the kind of guy kicking out the girl because he already has other plans.

Because he would rather _not_ have them at all.

He would rather take her right on the kitchen counter now, watch a movie with her, then likely make out on the couch…

 _The point is_ , he’d rather spend a lazy Christmas with his wench than with the Lannister clan, but there is no way around it because if the family calls, you have to answer. So Jaime reckons the best he can do is to give her the feeling that she is welcome in his apartment, and that it’s not just limited to it so long he is around.

She should feel welcome in his life.

“That sounds… good, yes,” Brienne replies. He claps her thigh lightly. “Alright, then the plan is set, right?”

“All set,” she agrees. “In which case… it’s high time for me to grab a shower. I am still sticky from… eggnog, grog, mulled wine... and all that.”

“ _And all that_ , right,” he says with a dirty grin.

“Shut your filthy mouth.”

“Well, then let me show you to the _bathing chambers_ , my lady,” Jaime says theatrically, hopping down from the stool, holding out his hand to her to help her down in a grandeur gesture that only makes her chortle.

He leads her over to the spacious bathroom.

“I think I can take it from here on my own,” Brienne huffs as Jaime walks into the room along with her.

“Of course you can,” he says with a dark grin spreading over his lips. “But I apparently need to shower as well. I only happen to have one shower, so we have no choice but to share.”

“Seriously.”

“Absolutely.”

“How convenient.”

“Most convenient!” he calls out joyfully before grabbing the hem of her, no his, shirt. “We should use our time wisely, no?”

“Sure,” she replies as the blush keeps spreading over her entire body.

 **_Carpe Diem_ ** _and all that stuff._

She takes what she gets – and as the shower session soon proves, Brienne gets by far more than she ever dared to imagine possible, hidden behind thick, white mist engulfing them similarly to the fluff of the pillows, taking all sense of time and space away as their world yet again morphs to just them – and the running water.

Brienne just gets lost in the sensations, the feelings, the flux of time rolling past them from the shower head.

And it’d be a lie to say that she is not a bit disappointed once the water runs cold and they have to climb out, even if a bit wobbly – though _both_ of them do.

“Seriously, there is not enough time in a day to do the required catching-up,” Jaime grumbles as he zips his jeans, the beads of water still glistening on his bare chest.

He’d rather jump right back under the shower to make her breathe his name against the shower stall.

_But… if family duty calls, you have to answer, or else your family will loathe you for the next five Christmases to come._

At least that’s how it works in the Lannister family.

“Well, my father always says there is a time for everything,” Brienne says with a roll of her shoulders, toweling her hair. “As it appears, today is not the time for that… too much.”

“Which is a pity beyond a word’s description,” Jaime sighs.

“Hey, look at it like this: At least you get to see your family tonight,” Brienne argues.

That is a luxury _she_ can’t say she will enjoy this Christmas. Her Christmas eve will be… _very lonely_ – because her father is at Dragonstone, no way around it.

“I would still rather _not_. I see them all the while at the office, bugging me out of my mind,” Jaime argues.

“But it’s _Christmas_ ,” she insists.

“And I hoped to have made clear that what _you_ consider Christmas is thrice removed from what is _my_ family Christmas reality,” Jaime argues.

He doesn’t have those magical Christmases with lights and stories, no way around it. Lannister Christmas is pretending, wine and dine, and fake smiles.

Brienne looks at him, and Jaime is surprised at the strange sort of intensity in her big blue eyes, despite the softness her gaze holds.

“You said yourself that you love your family. And that’s the _only_ thing that matters,” Brienne argues. “As corny as it sounds, and I _know_ it does, in the end it’s about spending time with the people you love… Years later, no one will remember what food was served or what music played, or what suit or dress you were forced to wear. You’ll only remember the moments you shared with the people you care about. That’s what sticks over the years.”

“Like sitting in the corner with my brother, bragging about everyone’s dirty little secrets or changing lyrics?” Jaime huffs.

“Like bragging about everyone’s dirty little secrets or changing lyrics, _yes_ ,” Brienne insists.

“What now?” Jaime wrinkles his nose in confusion. “That’s not… _Christmas-y_.”

He knows as a matter of fact that anything relating to Lannister Christmas is... anything but Christmas.

“Even years later, you remember that. You still know the lyrics. Because it’s something _special_ you and your brother shared. What does it matter if it’s _that_ or one of those fantastically sounding Christmas feasts you see in the movies? That’s been _your_ sort of Christmas. You created your own moments, however small they may appear. For me, my father telling Christmas stories at a local feast that’s not even Christmas is _my_ definition of the holiday. Because I get to spend time with him, because I just love the lights… it’s the small things that stick. It’s the small things that matter.”

She licks her lips. “Or rather, in the end it's always the _people_ you spend your Christmas with that matter. That you spend it with the people you love. That is one of the truths those movies get right, apparently. It’s about the people, not the presents, not the dinners, about the many faults and fallacies, the theatrical bending backwards to bypass scandals… it’s about love, simple as that. And so long you love them… that's your version of Christmas, that’s… _your_ Christmas. It may be far from perfect, but whose Christmas _actually_ is? I think we all have something we hate about our Christmases, be it the family, that uncle who always gets drunk, or you name it. What matters is that something always sticks, that there is something you take from every year that seems to be the same when in fact it’s not. Something you’ll always remember because you create those moments for yourself, with the people you _really_ care about. Because you spend time with your loved ones.”

Jaime just stares at her.

_That came unexpected._

Because it is so… _on point_.

“So… just focus on that instead of thinking of all the things you don’t have, hm?” she suggests.

“You have a point right there.”

“Shocking, right?” she laughs.

“Absolutely! I nourished that Christmas hate over the years, woman, now you make me doubt myself in that regard,” Jaime jokes.

“Perspective is everything.”

“That… is _very_ true,” he agrees.

Because last night proved that some things had to be put in the right light, the right perspective, so he could finally make sense of it, of her, them.

“See? So have your awful Christmas and take the best bits from it,” Brienne says, offering a gentle smile.

“As my lady commands.” He laughs at her rolling her big blue eyes at him.

Time passes way too fast after that, at least it seems like the clocks turn faster the moment on they exit the bathroom. And soon enough, Jaime finds himself in suit and tie again, putting on his fancy coat, looking like a _true_ Lannister, which makes him feel oddly unhappy since Brienne is still clad in cotton white shirt and some shorts she _insisted_ he borrowed her until her jeans and sweater come out of the dryer, looking _so_ very comfortable that he just feels any urge to call in sick or so. If only to sink right into that strange familiarity, the warm comfort she radiates like a distant, yet very close star. But Brienne wouldn’t let him, he knows. That woman is too honest and honorable for that.

“Alright… so I guess that’s the moment of truth where I have to head into the _Lion’s Den of Christmas_ ,” Jaime sighs, making his displeasure no secret.

“You’ll be fine. You suffered through it for years already, no?” Brienne argues.

“There is a new low every year,” he sighs.

“Then just enjoy your brother’s company and the good food?”

“Which sums up the _only_ pleasant experiences about Lannister Christmas.”

“Two is more than none at all,” Brienne argues. “So you should be on your way now.”

“Is it that you want me out of my own apartment?” Jaime chuckles.

“Why of course, I will have the _time of my life_ in your apartment, all by myself, waiting for the dryer to finish,” she huffs.

“Well, if anything’s up, I think you still have my number, right?”

“Yes,” she says. They exchanged numbers two weeks into working together.

“Good, then… ugh, I should be on my way,” Jaime says with a grimace.

“Yes, you should be,” Brienne agrees with a gentle smile. “Though you try to get around it.”

Just that Jaime _really_ doesn’t want to.

He sighs, but then steps over to her one last time to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth before quickly exiting.

Brienne blinks a few times before her mind registers that she is still in his apartment, while being completely alone in it. And with him, the greatest part of comfort just faded away all of a sudden.

She looks around. Now in the daylight, even the bit of decoration he bothered to put up looks meager in comparison to the large space of the loft. Small wonder that Jaime never gets any sort of festive vibe from that bit of mostly _obviously_ artificial Christmas decoration. Brienne wrinkles her nose.

_It’s the day of Christmas._

And she doesn’t have anything to do until her clothes are dried – though Brienne keeps the fingers crossed the sweater didn’t shrink in it. But that makes no difference… it’s… this room. She checks her phone. A quick search via _Firewolf_ soon reveals that what she’s been looking for, just a few blocks from the apartment.

If she is bound to spend a miserable Christmas day anyway, she might just as well put some effort into making it pleasant for the one guy who made her day before Christmas away from Tarth’s lights and her father’s stories something so very special.

And so, a plan is formed.


	4. Of Christmas Lights, Stories, Phone Calls, and Hot Chocolate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime suffers through Lannister Christmas. 
> 
> Brienne decides to make a phone call. 
> 
> Will JB see each other on Christmas or not?
> 
> Read to find out!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> Thank you so much for the kudos and the comments, you are such a kind, precious readership. I love you all.

Jaime pinches the bridge of his nose, sitting on the red velvet couch at his Father’s residence, right next to Tyrion, who is dangling his short legs over the edge, Cersei being late _yet again_.

_As every other year. What a Christmas tradition!_

The ride to the Lannister Residence was actually a rather pleasant one, against all odds. Jaime just put up the volume for one of the Christmas carols humming on the radio and started to sing one of the mock versions he and Tyrion made up, which did take the younger brother by surprise, but soon thereafter he joined in. And Jaime must admit, that was perhaps one of the most pleasant experiences about anything relating to Lannister Christmas he comes to remember.

Brienne will laugh her ass off once he has to admit that she had the rights of it.

But all of the fun was over once they crossed the threshold, only to be escorted to the lounge area by one of the maids, telling them to wait until Tywin manages to get himself there as well to give them the annual lecture.

“Man, I hope Father didn’t lock the Brandy away again. Or the Bourbon. I think I’ll need a lot tonight,” Tyrion grumbles, looking around.

“Why in particular?”

“Do I need any more reason than having to bear with Father for an entire night?” Tyrion snorts.

“Not really,” Jaime chuckles.

Father always was and will forever be especially tough on Tyrion, for not being bloody well perfect, because for Tywin Lannister, anything that isn't perfect is not good enough.

“So yeah, keep the fingers crossed for that I get something to drink.”

“I bet they’ll see to it. I don't think people actually know you sober.”

“I want it to stay that way. Speaking of… how was the _Christmas Fair Drinking Orgy_?” Tyrion asks, fixing his gaze on his older brother.

“It was _Christmas_ , there was a _fair_ , people _drank_ a lot, and there was an _orgy_. So a bit of everything, I’d say,” Jaime says with a grin.

“How joyful!”

“They dragged us all over to Oberyn’s. I still wonder if the house still stands after the Sand Snakes had their fun there.”

“Oh my, I am ever the gladder I did not attend. While I _love_ drinking, those huge parties tend to pose a danger to my wellbeing. People constantly run me over!”

“It was alright… once I left,” Jaime chuckles softly.

“You look unnaturally happy tonight. That is all sorts of scary,” Tyrion comments.

“Scary?” Jaime frowns.

“This is _Christmas_. That’s not the time for happy faces, for _real_ happy faces. We both know that. So you tell me in all honesty, dear brother,” Tyrion says, looking at him with fake concern. “Did you take funny things? Milk of the poppy? Sweetsleep? You can tell me. I will keep all of your secrets, brother dearest.”

“I don’t do drugs, now don’t make yourself ridiculous. I am not Cersei, okay? I am just… in a _festive mood_ , or _try_ to be, hm?” Jaime insists, rolling his eyes.

“Where is my brother and what did you do with him?”

“ _This_ is your brother, and he’d just like to… try to not be a bitch about Christmas this year,” Jaime. “For a change.”

“And you’re sure you didn’t suckle on a poppy?” Tyrion narrows his eyes at him.

“Most certain,” Jaime assures him with a sarcastic grin.

“So, did you get laid at last then?” Tyrion asks bluntly.

“ _Tyrion_!” Jaime cries out in exasperation.

“ _What_? That’s a natural conclusion. Sex makes people happy and smile dumbly. _I_ should know. And you haven’t dated anyone _in ages_. I was actually _that_ close to taking you to a club on Silk Street soon. Though I must say that would have been a hilarious turn of events, me having to play wingman for my handsome big brother, to introduce him to one of the hookers.”

“I can well do without, thank you,” Jaime sighs.

“You _so_ fucked someone last night,” Tyrion says with the biggest of grins. “Oh, c’mon, you can tell your little brother! I wouldn’t judge if you did it like the rabbits right on Oberyn’s pricey leather couch. In fact I would think that spoiling…”

“Tyrion. Jaime,” a familiar voice rings out, bringing ice even to the warmed-up place of the lounge area with huge fireplace.

“Father," the two say in unison - after years of forced practice, that is something they are truly perfect at.

“I hope you are aware that this is a topic I would rather _not_ have you converse about once the rest of the family arrives,” Tywin says, thus jumping right into the lecture.

_How joyful!_

“ _Of course_. My big brother’s sexual adventures should stay only with the _core_ family,” Tyrion grins lazily. “Though I think Aunt Genna will be disappointed not to hear of it. She is always very eager for such information!”

“Are you drunk again?” Tywin sighs.

“Do you even bother to ask after all this time?”

Tywin grimaces, but chooses not to comment.

Jaime chuckles to himself. That is perhaps the one way in which their Father is shown year after year that he has no control over everything. He can't fire Tyrion - or even threaten him with such a thing, because, even though Tywin Lannister would rather die than admit it, he needs that dwarfish son of his.

“So, what is on the naughty list this year? I heard of that break-up of that cousin I always forget the face of,” Tyrion goes on.

“In general, you shouldn’t address anyone’s marriages this year, safe for that of your Aunt Genna’s.”

“You can always count on Aunt Genna not to make any trouble,” Tyrion giggles. “She is one of the few Lannisters I actually like! She still has a soul she didn’t sell to the devil yet!”

“Yet another thing you should not bring up,” Tywin sighs.

“What? Everyone has his or her favorites, that's no secret,” Tyrion argues.

“… Jaime,” Tywin sighs, turning his attention to the older son, who blinks at him expectantly. “Yes, Father?”

“What happened to your hand?” his father asks slowly.

Jaime looks down, shaking his wrist. “I injured it… while _boxing_.”

“Boxing,” Tywin repeats, obviously not buying any of that lie.

“Yes, boxing. Without gloves.”

_Defending a woman's honor!_

“Is there something I need to know?” Tywin asks.

“But _why_ , Father? It’s Christmas! The time of the year where we all pretend to know nothing at all!” Jaime can’t help but retort.

_Always the same._

Were Jaime born into another clan, another family knowing warmth and personal bonds, he may tell his father about the most joyous night he spent, and the girl he met, but with Tywin Lannister? _No way_.

“Just make sure that you stick to _that_ version when the rest arrived,” Tywin sighs. “Will someone give me a call once I come back to the office regarding the matter, though?”

“Possibly.”

“Who?”

“Ronnet Connington.”

“Well, that should pose no problem,” Tywin says with a blank expression. “He is supposed to leave the company anyway.”

“Is he?” Jaime asks, surprised.

“He is not at all efficient. Someone else will take his spot,” Tywin says with a roll of his shoulders. "We already talked about it a few times during the council meetings. It's not yet official, however."

Jaime grins.

_Now, isn’t that oh too sweet?_

As it appears, his father got him a fancy Christmas present after all, though he won’t ever know… any time soon, at least.

Jaime grins to himself. Maybe he can call Brienne later on to announce that small Christmas Miracle. At least that would give him a _good_ reason to call her up anyway.

“Splendid, then there should be no further issue, right?” the oldest son replies with a smirk.

“… just stick to the boxing part,” Tywin replies, looking around. “Where is your sister at?”

“Not here,” Tyrion tells him.

“I can see that.”

“This will be yet another joyful Christmas, I can feel it in my bones,” Tyrion says with a fake grin, rubbing his thighs. “The merriest Christmas ever!”

Jaime sighs, leaning back against the couch.

“So, to return to the main topic here: Who did you bone, when, and how? I want all the details, brother dearest!”

“TYRION!” his father cries out over his shoulder.

“No one is there yet!” Tyrion insists.

_This is going to be a long day…_

* * *

 

Brienne sits in the middle of Jaime’s living room, on the floor, smiling at her piece of work.

She is ridiculously proud of having pulled this off in only a few hours’ time. Likely it’s for nothing anyways, but it’s the gesture that counts, right?

The dryer beeps, ripping Brienne out of her musings at her Christmas work, back to the reality that this is the wake-up call.

_That this is over now._

Brienne sighs as she stands up, trots over to the dryer, happy to find her sweater still its normal size. She does quick work to take off the borrowed clothes to then slip into her own.

She twists the fabric of the cotton shirt between her fingers a while longer, but then pulls herself out of the moment.

_This is getting ridiculous._

Brienne puts the clothes in the laundry bag before walking over to the other side of the loft, putting on her boots and coat, making sure to not forget the small paper bag with the Christmas tree on it.

She glances back once at the loft, trying to imprint the image into her mind so not to forget anything about it ever again, but then shuts the door, walking down hallway to the elevator.

Brienne lets out an almost strangled laugh when _Jingle Bells_ starts to play while she stands in the lift. Once she reached the ground level, Brienne finds the front desk with the black-haired concierge sitting behind the counter.

“Hi, uhm, my name is Brienne of Tarth. I was one of Mr. Lannister’s guests, and he said you’d organize me a ride home?” she asks politely.

“Yeah, Pretty Boy filled me in on the details,” he says, getting up, grabbing his jacket. “He’s lucky that I care more about money than holidays, which means that while my services don’t come cheap, I will do whatever errands necessary even on Christmas day. Alright then, follow me, lady, since I happen to be your chauffeur today.”

The ride home is more of a rush. Brienne just watches the houses drifting past her as the streets keep extending to threads of color that seem almost unending once they get to speed up a bit.

She thanks Bronn for the services once they arrived, and gives him a tip for his troubles anyway, before she makes her way up to her own apartment.

And while it shouldn’t really surprise her, it feels incredibly cold and lonely to come into the apartment now. Because reality is here again. Christmas in King’s Landing. Father nowhere around. Dragonstone too far away… and Jaime long since having left the little bubble that engulfed him so long the door was closed.

Brienne shrugs out of her coat, contemplating for a long moment just what to do next, but then her own words resonate in the back of her head, forming a new resolve in her mind. She walks over to the small coffee table and picks up the house phone, dials, waits, as she sits down in the small armchair there.

At last, someone picks up.

“Hello? Dad?”

Brienne’s smile keeps spreading as her eyes begin to glisten at the sound of her father’s voice. She wasn’t really prepared to be that taken aback by the sound of his voice, but now that she realizes how lonely her Christmas eve is going to be after all, hearing him makes it better and worse at the same time.

“Hi. I know. Do you have time? Yes? Good. I just… I wanted to talk to you… Dad, no, I didn’t want to make you sad, stop now, c’mon. So listen. I wanted to apologize for how all this went down. I didn’t mean to make you mad… or be mad… Yes, I know. Dad, _I know_. I know that you never meant for that… it’s just… Dad? Let me explain, alright? Yes. The reason why I got so mad is that I was disappointed you didn’t even consider involving me in your plans, and now I _know_ you meant it as a surprise, but you know how much the feast at the village means to me…"

She runs the flat of her hand over her face. When her father gets agitated, he tends to speak really fast and you can't intervene until he is finished. And right now, he is busy babbling about how he thought that she didn't want to go to the feast anyway.

"... Dad, I couldn’t make it last year because there was an emergency. Otherwise I _would_ have come, I _told_ you. What? _No_ , I didn’t make that up. Why would I make that up? I _know_ it sounds outrageous, but Renly did indeed get attacked out of the blue, by what, to us, is still no more than a shadow, so we had to take him to the hospital… That was no excuse to get out of attending the feast, dad. it never was!"

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Miscommunication - it happens even to the best.

Only her father believes that the only reason why she didn’t attend last year was to make clear that she no longer cared… even when she had a perfect alibi, having taken Renly to the hospital after that mysterious attack.

“I was mad because I felt like we wouldn’t have our Christmas, and that made me angry. But I am sorry about that, because it shouldn’t matter. Because what should matter is… _us_. And I forgot that and for that I am sorry.”

Brienne bites her lip as her father keeps talking at rapid speed.

“Dad, I know that you just wanted to reconnect with them... what? Oh dad, I don't need _quantitively_ more family members. When I said that Evenfall was pretty empty, I didn't mean _that_ by any chance! No! I don't need more family. I got you, who else would I need?" she argues. "It’s just… had we talked about this, we could have found _other_ arrangements, I am sure. But again, it’s not the issue… _no_. The damage is done now. But I don’t want to fight with you or want you to feel like I am angry with you. I am angry with myself… Dad, we talked about this… Yes. _Of course_ I will be there for New Year’s Eve. I promise… When did I ever break a promise, you remind me? And who taught me that? Exactly. Look, let’s just call it one shitty Christmas planning this year and vow to make it better next time. Maybe the rest of the family wants to come to Tarth next time?”

Brienne can’t help as more tears keep welling up in her eyes. Only now does she grow conscious how much she misses him – because she just loves him so much.

And only now does it dawn on her how this couldn’t ever be Christmas because none of the people she loves are around tonight.

“ _Yes_! That was just my thinking – we can spend the day before Christmas there and then head there… whatever fits. See? There is a solution to everything! So… are we good again…? Yes?”

She wipes with her sleeve over her eyes.

“No, I am _not_ crying. I can hear you sniffling on the other end of the line, Mister,” Brienne snorts. “So… how is Dragonstone? Yes… oh, I told you often enough that you don't have to get me tourist presents…. Of course… The package? It arrived three days early. No worries. I got your present under my Christmas tree… I also got you something, but you’ll only get it once we see each other again. I think you’ll like it a lot… I know that you like all of my presents, dad… but… you’ll like this one, I am sure of it.”

She smiles as fresh tears keep welling up, but at some point Brienne really stops to care. This is her father, and she loves him fiercely. What does it matter?

They are each other’s only family they got left. Safe for whoever Father managed to call up on Dragonstone now.

“The business trip? We went to the Christmas Market, like every year… it was… not as bad as I thought it would be? Well, it was chaos, but it had… its highlights? Oh, you’ll be pleased to hear that Ronnet got punched in the face. Remember Ronnet? Dad, dad! _No_ , you won't take a flight to punch him now, too… _Seriously_ , dad? Really? As I keep telling you, once I marry, you will be the first I will send that invitation card to… no. _No_!” she laughs.

That man is so eager to play matchmaker at times...

“In any case… yeah, it was _rather_ nice in the end. If it compared to the village? I don’t think you can compare these things, really. They were… _so_ very different… Okay, you know what? I can hear people talking in the background. You should get back to what I assume is dinner? Yeah, yeah, I did enough Christmas shopping to make it through the night. I won’t starve to death, dad. _Yes_. So… you should get back at them. I will spend the evening reading stories… yes, that old leather-bound book you gave me for my 13 th birthday! I’ll be fine. _Yes_. _Absolutely_ sure. _No_ , you won’t catch a flight to King’s Landing. You will stay put at Dragonstone and reconnect with our distant family. I will talk to you soon again, alright? Yes, I will call you tomorrow of course. Bye, dad. _Bye_. Dad. _BYE_. Merry Christmas… yes. Alright, bye. I love you very, very much, okay? Bye. _Bye_!”

Brienne hangs up, putting the receiver down on the coffee table with a thud, rubbing her eyes. It’s the season, really. Christmas always makes her all squishy and sentimental. And the fact that he is so far away really doesn’t help it. But Brienne is just glad that she reconciled with him. She can’t stand the thought to be at quarrel with him.

She looks around.

_Well, that’s it, then._

All is said and done. The bubble burst. Reality has her back again. And while she is fine with that, Brienne can’t deny the bit of disappointment at the fact that it is now over so very fast.

But that is the thing with those small big moments. They are not meant to last forever. Their magic lies within the incident, within the moment itself, the fact that it is fleeting. Or else it wouldn’t stand out against reality.

Though then again… one can always hope for some of those magical moments to last a while longer, _right_?

* * *

 

Jaime runs his fingers through his hair, finding himself in the luxurious lounge area yet again, with seemingly all Lannister family members having gathered to marvel at Tywin Lannister’s empire, residence, and entire existence.

Greetings were the usual. _Kiss to the right. Kiss to the left. How are you? Good, thank you. And you? Splendid. Who is next in the line? Repeat the process._

Dinner was the usual, too. Topics stayed untouched like the sprouts with Christmas seasoning.

_Whoever came up sprinkling cinnamon on that thing should be put in prison._

Most kept silent the whole time so not to say something wrong, or generously ignored the obvious, such as Cersei actually even topping Tyrion, turning up _perfectly_ drunk at the family dinner, half an hour too late.

And now, here they sit, exchanging presents no one cares about. Mostly envelopes with money or checks in them change owners.

As though they didn’t have enough money anyway.

Jaime still stares down at Cersei’s present for him: _Some_ random asset for his car, despite the fact that often enough he told her that he doesn’t particularly care about cars, and even less about the technology of it. But oh well, at least she didn’t forget it this year. It was quite a scandal three years ago, when she either gave everyone the wrong presents or just forgot to buy some in the first place. Needless to mention that Tywin always provides them with a list of family members, to make sure everyone receives the same amount of presents.

Christmas, for Tywin Lannister, is _work_ , no more, no less. Promotional work. PR work.

“Jaimeeee?” Tyrion calls out, who got increasingly drunk after unwrapping Father’s gift – a leather-bound calendar for “better organization”, making his disappointment no secret.

“Yes?” the older brother sighs.

“You still have to tell me whom you boned.”

“What did Father say?” Jaime argues.

“I have no clue. I stopped listening a _long_ time ago,” Tyrion argues. “I guess it as about not talking about it… but what do I care? He gave me a _calendar_! So, leave me that bit of fun. Wait, let me guess who it was!”

“No.”

“Yes! C’mon, this is fun,” Tyrion begs. Jaime sighs. It’s no use. Tyrion will try anyway, even without his permission. And what did Brienne say? It’s their strange sort of family tradition anyway.

“Fine, try your luck, little brother.”

Tyrion smiles happily before he scrunches his nose, contemplating the candidates. “Hildy?”

“Nope,” Jaime huffs. “She is nice, but… not my type.”

“Pia?” Tyrion goes on. “I know that she’s had a crush on you for a looooong time.”

“No,” Jaime replies. “I introduced her to Peck. They are a couple now, didn’t you know?”

“Oh, crackers! I thought Pia was the best guess, actually!” Tyrion pouts, snapping his fingers. “People are not as good with the gossip lately, I did not know of Pia and Peck being a thing.”

“Well, one more guess left. You must choose wisely.”

Tyrion narrows his eyes at him. “That blonde woman you always argue with, the lady from Tarth?”

Jaime blinks.

 _Never underestimate Tyrion Lannister and his people-skills_.

“Ha, on the last one! I am sooooo good at this game!”

“What makes you think that it’s her?” Jaime argues.

“I have two eyes in my head?” Tyrion snorts. “For me, the question never was… _if_ you and she were into _shaking it up_ , but just _when_ you’d finally admit it to yourselves. You are far too obvious, brother. Though I love you for it. You are so wonderfully predictable.”

“And you never bothered to tell me?” Jaime huffs, amused, if a bit embarrassed.

If it was that damn obvious, it only proves another time that he could have used so many chances other than that Christmas fiasco.

_All those opportunities, Seven Hells!_

“Where’d be the fun in that?”

“Which reminds me,” Jaime sighs, pulling an envelope out of his jacket. “My present for you.”

“Please tell me it’s no check, Jaime. Or else I will cry in all honesty,” Tyrion begs. “You are the one family member I count on to a) not hate me, and b) not give me calendars and checks.”

“Open the envelope and shut up,” the older brother grumbles, leaning back.

“My own brother gives me the most impersonal present known to humankind? I am in tears!” Tyrion goes on pouting, surprised when apparently not a check tumbles into his hand, but tickets.

“A _winetasting_? I know I can always count on you to support my alcoholism,” Tyrion sighs with relief.

“It’s _for two_ , by the way.”

“So?” Tyrion wrinkles his nose at him, so Jaime goes on to explain, “ _So_? The smartass brother you are, you should know that this is for you and _your sweetheart_.”

“My, my sweetheart? I, the bachelor of…,” Tyrion means to argue, but Jaime interrupts him, “Just tell _Shae_ that you planned on that trip as a big surprise, I bet she’ll be delighted.”

“How do you know?” Tyrion asks, narrowing his eyes at him suspiciously.

“Why, brother, you think you are the only one who can read others? You have been so very obvious,” Jaime says with a big grin.

“I was not.”

“I am your big brother. I know those things, naturally. And of course, I have my spies.”

“Spies? Spies!" Tyrion sighs in a smaller voice this time. "Ha… yeah, I know, shocking, isn’t it?”

“You really like her, don’t you?” Jaime asks quietly.

“A whole lot,” Tyrion admits, a small smile creeping up his lips. “But you know Father. I don’t think he’ll be very delighted. She is not… what he likes to see in women. You know, no fancy name, no college degree, and all.”

“What exactly is he delighted in, you tell me?” Jaime argues.

“True again… I just shudder at the thought of having to introduce her to him at _some_ point… I bypassed it this year only due to the circumstance that she had other plans for Christmas, visiting family across the Narrow Sea – we spent a very pleasant early Christmas over at my apartment, though…”

“That’s why you bailed out of the Christmas Market, no?” Jaime chuckles.

_That is the easiest explanation, actually._

He really should have caught that already back when they started their little game to determine on who must go to the Christmas Market. Though then again, it’s a fortune. Had Tyrion not cheated, Jaime wouldn’t have gone. He wouldn’t have talked to Brienne…

In a strange way, it’s actually also thanks to him, though of course, that is something Jaime won’t let the little devil know, now anyways.  

“You know me too well… But yeah, I dodged the _Sword of Durran_ only by mere luck of her having other plans, but my lady puts me under pressure.”

“You’ll be fine. Father approves of nothing much anyway. Though I expect you to introduce her to me at some point now,” Jaime assures him.

“You want to?” Tyrion blinks at him, seemingly earnestly surprised, if not taken aback by the statement.

“I _demand_ to. I am your big brother. I have to do all those _brotherly_ things, ask uncomfortable questions, embarrass you in front of her…”

“Oh, by the God of Wine and Tits,” Tyrion grunts, covering his face with his hands.

“You brought that upon yourself, so deal with it.”

“It’s time for the toasts!" someone calls out, pulling the brothers out of their little bubble of personal joy, right back into another round of _Smile and Pretend_.

“Oh by the Gods,” Tyrion moans. “I can’t keep my arm up that long.”

“You have work-out more," Jaime whispers, lifting his glass, preparing for keeping it up for _quite_ some time.

What follows is a long litany wherein Tywin Lannister recounts the family’s greatness and achievements, thanks everyone _in_ _particular_ to give them the feeling that he gives a damn about them when in fact all know he does not, bypassing and twisting any truth about them, talking about strong family ties, strong marriages…

And Jaime just starts to feel sicker by the minute the longer this goes on. Because this is the embodiment of everything he hates about Christmas. The superficiality, the artificiality, the lack of warmth, comfort, honesty. That here should people stand who love each other because they are a family, but there could not be more distance between those people as there is right at this moment.

_But let’s lift our glasses to that charade anyway!_

“To the family,” Tywin concludes, and all repeat in a chorus, “To the family.”

Just that this is _not_ to the _family_ , it’s to the _image_ of it. It’s not to naughty Christmas songs and that one Christmas Jaime remembers even a pleasant moment with Cersei when the three, still young children, stole away from the fuss, taking some cake from the kitchen, sitting on the veranda so that Tywin wouldn’t find them. That may have been the one Christmas Cersei and Tyrion got along, after both had received the _same_ present from Father, which had equally wounded both, making them brother and sister in truth, if only just for a single night. It’s to a name, not the people bearing it.

And no matter how fancy and expensive the Christmas decoration, no matter how tall that gigantic Christmas tree is, it’s still a poor excuse for a Christmas. Jaime had more Christmas on a Christmas Market, a _Christmas Orgy_ , punching a guy in the mouth, and spending not nearly enough time with Brienne, wrapped in the sheets.

“Tyrion?” he finds himself say all of a sudden, not looking at his younger brother as he speaks.

“Yes?”

“I will ask you an important question, and you have to answer me truthfully.”

“Sure.”

“Will you be very mad at me if I leave now?” Jaime asks.

“I won’t begrudge you for it. Bronn’s up for service anyway, is he not? He can pick me up. But why now all of a sudden?” Tyrion asks.

“I just need some _real_ Christmas, and I won’t find it here,” Jaime explains as realization keeps dawning on him.

Because Jaime is _so_ done wasting his time.

 _Wasting Christmas_.

“Well, so long you think you find it somewhere else – go forth, celebrate for the both of us! I will enjoy my evening watching Cersei make Father feel embarrassed about her!” Tyrion says cheerily, watching their father side-eyeing Cersei as she starts to bully Myrielle over her dress being too revealing.

“That’s my little brother,” Jaime chuckles, ruffling through the younger man’s hair. “Hey! Not everyone has the magical hair that just always falls perfectly no matter what he does. I have to work for it to look passable!”

“You’re fine,” Jaime sighs, standing up. “Time to go.”

“I keep the fingers crossed for you that Father won’t tackle you down.”

“We’ll see about that,” Jaime chuckles before he starts to walk away wordlessly, over to the large wardrobe, searching for his coat.

He is not surprised that his father seems to have sensed the disruption of the order at once, stalking after him into the room.

“What do you think you are doing?” Tywin demands, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Leaving,” Jaime replies curtly, if soft-spoken.

He really doesn’t want to fight.

He just wants real Christmas, which is anywhere but this place.

“We are not nearly done.”

“But _I_ am done. I did my duty. I showed up. I won’t create a fuss. The family image will stay intact, just the way you like it,” Jaime argues, going through the mass of black coats, hoping to finally spot his own.

“Is it really asked too much for you to make the effort for one bloody day of the year?” Tywin sighs.

“Therein lies the problem, Father,” Jaime argues. “That you make this _effort_. Work. This is _Christmas_ , by the Seven. The time of the year when people get drunk on Christmas Markets or all go out for a snowball fight. And you know, I think despite the fact that this is a holiday, I did my share of work anyway. People received their presents. I attended dinner. No one will miss me. I am no longer five and have to recite _The Poem of the Doom of Valyria_ , which is not really very _Christmas-y_ for a kid, I may add. So why don’t we just stop pretending, you tell me?”

“Your aunt already asked about you. People will ask questions,” Tywin insists.

“Tell them I went to another Christmas party, tell them there is an emergency if you want, I don’t care,” Jaime retorts. “I don’t want to stay. I had my part of the Lannister Christmas that matters. I saw about Tyrion and had my annual fun with him. I saw all the family members I care about… or don’t care about. All is done.”

“Just why do you seek to embarrass me like this all of a sudden?” Tywin growls.

“I don’t mean to embarrass you. I have a suggestion for you: Let go of all that stiff pretending, let’s all just start to sing some songs together, or, I don’t know, do one of those things _normal_ people do for Christmas. Why not try with a _real_ Christmas for once? Because technically, this should be the day to celebrate being with your loved ones, yet here I am, and I only see that we celebrate our family name.”

“The family name you owe your riches to,” Tywin reminds him.

“I am aware, but do we have to dedicate Christmas to it? Like, _entire_ Christmas?”

“I ask you for only just a single damn night not to make a fuss. And every year, you and your siblings do the exact opposite,” Tywin hisses.

“And if you were honest with yourself, you may realize that the reason for it is that your plan is just shitty and that this is why we revolt. You see, I grew up hating Christmas, thanks to you. But yesterday, I spent perhaps the most Christmas-like day of my life, and you know what? That day was a mess, it was still bloody well perfect. So now I sit here and I am just… _disappointed_ that this is all the Lannister clan manages. This is a poor excuse of a family feast, and if you were honest with yourself, you’d see that, too. It's small wonder Tyrion and Cersei spend Christmas getting drunk, because they know in advance that you will do nothing but disappoint them.”

“ _I_ disappoint _them_?”

“A calendar, Father, a _calendar_ and what was it for Cersei? A Lannister pen with golden initials? Like I got it last year? Even I bothered to get her a purse from her favorite designer,” Jaime retorts.

“It’s just presents.”

“Wherein lies the problem. I _know_ that this is what it is to you, _just_ presents. But it’s not just presents to _us_ , imagine that! Tyrion was happy about the winetasting coupon I got him because it related to him, because I made some effort. _Of course_ he can get it himself, but that present meant something because _I tried_. So _yes_ , your Christmases are… largely _disappointing_. Have been for years.”

“Jaime, you…,” Tywin growls, but the oldest son interrupts him, “I don’t want to argue with you, Father. I _really_ don’t. I'd rather spend a really nice Christmas with you all, drink wine, have honest conversation… instead of trying to bypass topics such as Daven continuing to grow his beard to a _ridiculous_ length, that Cerenna’s marriage is for the ditch, that Damion lost his job and is just too stubborn to ask you for help to have him at your company, or to go on pretending that you keep serving Cersei wine when in fact we all know that you have her cup filled with nonalcoholic wine, as you have done for years…”

“You WHAT?”

Tywin turns around to see Cersei walking by, only to stalk off angrily, likely to go for the hard liquor instantly.

“Most of us know these things, still we act like they don’t happen, like we don’t know. And that is _ridiculous_. For a man as realistic and tough as you are, it seems almost laughable that you give that much on other people’s opinions – as though this would instantly go to the press,” Jaime goes on.

Tywin just stares at him, cold eyes wide.

“But… I know you, so I know that you will now go on being mad at me, if you don’t disown me for a while – though we both know you won’t, really. So, none of the words I speak right now will reach you any time soon. That’s _fine_ , but hey, maybe we can work on having a better Christmas next year! You got an entire year to plan it in all detail! So that coming year, it won’t be as much of a poor excuse anymore,” Jaime says, before reaching into the big pocket of his coat to take out a golden wrapped box with red bow on top. “But before I forget it, this is for you, and believe me when I say that I hope that this makes you happy. I wish you a Merry Christmas, Father, I really do, but I can’t stay around this for only just a second. I need some Christmas now – and I know where to find it, and that is… _anywhere but here_. So… Merry Christmas.”

With that, Jaime walks past the head of the Lannister family and exits the house, feeling the strongest yet strangest sort of relief washing over him as the cold hits his face.

He knows he will get hell for this once he is back at work, but… he doesn’t really care.

_It’s Christmas eve!_

Jaime climbs into his car to drive away from the Lannister Residence, which disappears into a strange sort of red light in the rearview mirror.

Maybe next year it will shine like Jaime imagines Tarth to shine? Who knows?

He makes his way back to his loft quickly, and hurries out of the car, almost tripping over the snow mixed with mud to make it to the front desk almost sliding across the shiny floor.

Bronn is apparently _not_ there.

Jaime grimaces. He otherwise could have asked him. Well, no harm done in checking himself. So, he gets into the elevator, listening to _All I Want for Christmas is You_ until he gets out of the metal container to more or less elegantly slide over to his door, turning the key in the lock, and pushing the door open.

The lights are out. That means Brienne is apparently no longer in the apartment. For a moment, Jaime had hoped that maybe she had stayed around after all, _waiting for him_.

He flicks on the lights anyway, only to blink as the room only lights up slightly, instead all kinds of warm glowing Christmas lights hanging all around the room shining back at him.

Jaime walks into his apartment, the warm light dancing over his skin in a foreign yet comfortable glow. He turns on the heel, taking it all in. That is _not_ how he decorated his loft in some fifteen minutes, that much is for sure.

A smile spreads across his face, because it mirrors so well what he imagined yesterday, when Brienne spoke of the village, the lights, the stories, her version of Christmas that Jaime would like to call his own.

He comes to stand by the kitchen counter, his fingers tapping on the top lightly as he marvels at the view, the lights warming him up instantly, from deep within, only to come into contact with a slip of paper. Jaime turns his head.

 _A note._ He picks it up, narrowing his eyes to see the words scribbled in the dim yet shining light.

Jaime blinks, feeling the slightest bit of wetness gathering in his eyes.

_There it is._

He shakes his head. He mustn’t lose anymore time. Jaime picks up the car keys from the counter, glances back once to contain that view, to make it stick, before he turns off the most magical lights to make his way back to the exit, surprised to find Bronn there all of a sudden.

“Back that early? Did the old man throw you out or what?” Bronn snorts, twisting in his chair.

“No, I left on my own.”

“What a bold move.”

“And where were you?” Jaime asks.

“A man has to relieve himself every now and then.”

“Right, so you took Brienne home, yes?”

“As you demanded of me,” Bronn snorts.

“Do you still have the address?”

“Ugh, River Row _something_ … it’s the one house with blue in it, you can’t really miss it.”

“Thank you,” Jaime smiles, tapping the flat of his hand on the counter before rushing back out the door.

“Just why did I bother driving her when it was damn well obvious he’d come after her anyway? Seven Hells, people are just so damn dramatic,” Bronn grumbles, before focusing his attention back on the Christmas movie he started watching.

* * *

 Brienne almost has to laugh at herself once she grows conscious of the fact that she is actually sitting in her rocking chair, with a blanket over her lap like an old granny, reading fairytales and knightly tales with hot chocolate she helped herself to – because it’s Christmas, then the sugar doesn't count, her Father always said.

After feeling miserable for maybe an hour or two, Brienne found a new resolve in herself, not wanting to let herself be pulled down after the night before having been so very special t her, so she said to herself that she might just as well make the best out of it.

Hot chocolate, stories, dimmed light and lots of Christmas lights to create a wonderful glow coming a bit closer to Tarth's lights, her little Christmas tree, and some frozen _Christmas Dinner for One_ from _Hot Pie’s Ready-Made Feasts_ getting crispy and burned by the edges in the oven may not be too close to the village, but close enough to make her feel more or less comfortable again.

While preparing dinner, she even found herself singing along to one of the Christmas carols playing on the radio, blushing like a teenager once one of the songs started to play that Jaime gave her the lewd lyrics for – only to sing those instead.

He really rubbed off on her… _in **more** than one way_.

Brienne snorts. Going back to the office will be all kinds of odd, that much is for certain, but at the same time… there is a part in her looking forward to it, while another just doesn’t care. What did Jaime say? She should care less about people’s opinions. So if they want to spread gossip about her, about her and Jaime, or even Ronnet, the asshole, shall they.

Brienne had one of the best nights before Christmas likely anyone ever had, so what does it matter what others make of it, not knowing the facts?

Where was she? Brienne looks back down at the book sitting in her lap.

Oh, right, the best part of the story, her absolute favorite from _The Tales of Goldenhand the Just and Brienne the Beauty_ , her namesake.

**_The knight comes to rescue the maiden,_ **   
**_and jumps into the bear pit,_ **   
**_knowing no fear,_ **   
**_defending her with no weapon in hand,_ **   
**_but with an undying will to protect the woman he loves,_ **   
**_but then the bear comes charging and…_ **

BANG!

Brienne’s head shoots up at the sound.

_The bear?_

BANG! BANG!

Oh, someone is at the door at that hour? Maybe it’s Jon Snow from apartment 2A? That guy would forget his own head if it weren’t firmly attached to his shoulders. Because that young man knows nothing, especially about cooking. Brienne forgot to count just how often he had to borrow eggs, milk, flour, and cups and gallons of sugar from her – because Ygritte can’t cook and won’t cook – she is not the type, or so she claims, so he has to do it if they don’t want to starve, and he is _miserable_ at it. He even managed to burn noodles once, in water.

_Go figure._

The banging on the door becomes more erratic. Brienne gets up.

“Coming. A moment,” she calls out as she crosses over to the door. She opens at once, expecting Jon’s blank expression to stare back at her, but instead…

“ _Jaime_?!”

“At last you open the door! I was about to kick it down!”

“What are you doing here?” Brienne asks, demands, gapes… she isn’t sure what her face is doing right at this second. Because Jaime was the last person she considered seeing tonight.

She bore one faint hope – to maybe find the courage to call him up later to wish him a Merry Christmas in person, and to make sure he wasn’t mad at her redecorating his apartment for a Christmas present she grew increasingly embarrassed over the more she thought about it while back home.

_Because… how bloody corny could this be?_

But now, here he stands, leaning against her door frame, still clad in suit, tie, and woolen coat, the hair a bit of a mess, a bit of sweat on his forehead, his eyes wild and even more brilliantly green in the yellowish light in the hallway.

“You should be at your family dinner.”

“I was there.”

“I thought we talked about how…,” Brienne means to lecture him, but Jaime interrupts her. “We talked about it, yes. And you had the rights of it. It’s the people that matter. I did everything Lannister Christmas has to offer as for memorable moments… and I actually found the courage to tell Father just how shitty this is, after all those years. I still think there might be a sniper to hunt me from tomorrow on, but… I gave him some food for thought.”

Brienne grimaces at him. He looks ridiculously proud of himself for it. Though she reckons that for Jaime, this is what it was for Brienne to call up her father to apologize and talk about just why she had been angry with him – a big step. Talking feelings in general is hard for her, and Brienne supposes it to be the same for Jaime, judging by what he told her about his upbringing. 

Because that didn’t sound like an environment encouraging children to talk about their feelings, or to feel comfortable admitting their problems.

While she talked to her father for different reasons, it was about admitting what she didn't like and how she felt, to let those feelings happen, and that is a big step for her despite the fact that she loves her father so fiercely, and knows he wouldn’t ever deny her her tears.

If Jaime feels like that only in the slightest, then it stands to reason that the smile on his face is one of pride, of finally having admitted those feelings, having stood by them instead of going on with a strange charade so others don’t see his pain, the feeling of loss for having only that poor excuse of a familial bond.

“So, I will have to admit that you have been right about some many things,” Jaime goes on. “That you ought to celebrate Christmas with the people you love. Well, I celebrated as far as it’s possible, but… then I had another realization, you see.”

And it appeared to him again and again - until finally he saw it in the Christmas lights in his apartment.

“Which is?” Brienne asks, blinking, still trying to comprehend.

“I won’t ever get to _really_ celebrate this year’s Christmas at the Lannister Residence.”

“Why?” she asks, perplex.

“Because you ought to celebrate with the people you love, you said.”

“Well, you said you love your family,” Brienne argues. “And obviously you do.”

“But they are not the _only_ ones I love,” Jaime says, leaning closer. “And that one missing piece is apparently not at the Lannister Residence but staring at me right at this second as I speak these words.”

“L, love,” Brienne repeats, rolling the word on her tongue as though it was a ball of lead.

“You said it, it’s the perspective that matters,” Jaime goes on to explain. “Yesterday… put things in perspective for me.”

“And what perspective is that?” she asks hesitantly.

“That I should have asked you for a date a long time ago, the latest when you helped fix my car. I should have just taken you along for a drink, so I could have spent three actual Christmases already, with you, _and_ my magnificently disastrous family.”

He comes even closer, impossibly closer. And Brienne can do nothing but stand still as her mind disconnects, floats like the heavy snowflakes outside that lose all weight in the wind’s embrace.

“As shocking as it is, as awkward as it may be, considering the circumstances under which we… had the right light cast on our situation… Brienne of Tarth, the plain truth is this: I seem to have fallen in love with you.”

Brienne stares numbly, her blue eyes flickering back and forth, racing from one corner of her mind to the other, shouting: _He said he loves you! He said he loved you! He loves you! Loves you! Loves you! Love! Love! Love!_

“Will you just go on looking at me for an hour or will you say something? I’d just like to know what I have to prepare for,” Jaime asks in an easy voice, the twinkle back in his eye, though there is a hint of worry there, too.

And that is when it dawns on Brienne in her hazy mind.

_He is uncertain about that._

Because he _means_ it.

And he _needs_ her to mean it, too.

“It seems to be the same for me,” Brienne brings out, swallowing thickly, trying to spit out the ball of lead, to free her tongue, free her soul. “I think I’ve fallen in love with you, too, Jaime… against all odds.”

“That… is a relief. Or else I may just have made a _Christmas Fool_ of myself,” Jaime chuckles, his heart beating faster but easier now.

Falling love is easy, but admitting it? It’s tough, or it should be, because now that he brought out those sweet words? Jaime can’t help but ask himself just how it comes it took him so long, how it wasn’t easy all along.

“No more than I did with my Christmas present,” Brienne snorts.

“What? No, I loved it,” Jaime insists, honesty, absolutely serious. “That was… rarely do people manage to render me speechless…”

“You never shut up,” she huffs. "It is known."

“Just my point,” he chuckles, but then turns more serious again. “You rendered me speechless with that… because… I never received such a present. That is… the second-best Christmas present I received in a lifetime.”

“What’s the best?” Brienne questions, her voice soft. She frowns once she hears a small bell chime above her – only to see something dangling between Jaime’s finger’s as he leans against the doorframe.

A mistletoe, with red ribbon, and two golden bells.

She can’t help but laugh in all honestly, not even trying to hide her ugly teeth, her Septa’s words of how she should cover her mouth because it made her look ugly not present at all. She just laughs, and Jaime joins in.

It’s likely very ridiculous, so very corny, and that from two people who started out hating Christmas, _this_ Christmas in particular!

Yet, here they are, under the mistletoe.

It’s not the village from Tarth, it’s not fancy. Jaime stands in a puddle of melted, muddy snow, no music plays, Brienne walks around in leggings and an oversized Christmas sweater that makes her likely look even more ridiculous. It’s no fancy Christmas dinner with turkey or glazed ham.

And still, a moment worth of eternity.

A moment of imperfect perfection.

A snowflake, one of its kind, meant to melt away, but no less beautiful, beautiful because it is fleeting, because it is one of its kind. Marvelous, absolutely singular.

Because it’s their moment, a moment they created for themselves, no matter the circumstance. With bruised wrists, still pinkish cheeks from a small bruise forming there, fading into yellow and green, a mistletoe Brienne knows Jaime must have picked out of the wreath dangling on Sansa’s apartment door – because Brienne knows that _just_ such a mistletoe was woven into the door wreath.

And Brienne already knows – she won’t ever forget it.

This will stick.

And she won’t ever forget again.

Brienne just leans into that kiss without another word, ignoring the sound of the mistletoe falling to the ground as Jaime’s arms wrap around her to deepen the kiss, to hold her close, in just the way he did yesterday, even if fully clothed, allowing no distance between them.

They waltz into the room, or rather, Jaime just keeps pushing her back inside with his entire body, closing the door behind them, kissing her a while longer, only to pull away once his lungs really strain for air.

“Yeah, best Christmas present by far,” he mutters, having to catch his breath, chest heaving, lips singing from the bruising, but then his attention turns to the right.

“Wait,” he says. “You insult _my_ fake Christmas tree, but you come to have the most crooked member I have seen in a lifetime? _Seriously_?”

He points at the _truly_ crooked Christmas tree, asymmetrical, slanted, small, over with wooden figures and warm-white Christmas lights not doing away with that fact.

Brienne laughs at him – and Jaime can’t help but marvel at that laughter. It’s so pure, so sweet, and ever the more wondrous coming from a woman standing as tall and strong as Brienne of Tarth.

“Hey, nothing against my Christmas tree,” she warns him. “It’s my tradition. I always buy the one no one wants to purchase.”

“You pay money for such an ugly thing?” Jaime makes a face, pointing at it again.

“They look so lonely,” she insists. “And once you put on the lights and tinsel… it’s not that bad anymore. There’s enough space to put the presents underneath, and that's all a Christmas tree has to do anyway.”

“You are a wonderfully curious case, Brienne,” Jaime chuckles. “Only I come to fall for the woman who takes pity in little, ugly, abandoned Christmas trees.”

“As I come to fall for the guy stealing Christmas decoration from other people’s doors.”

“As though they’re going to miss it,” Jaime snorts, but then grimaces. “I think something’s burning here.”

“Oh, shit, the turkey.”

“You got a turkey?”

“A slice?”

“ _Hot Pie’s Ready-Made Feasts_ really?” he snorts.

“If you overcook it just a bit, it’s really rather good,” Brienne argues, untangling herself from Jaime’s arm, much to his dismay, to hurry into the kitchen to take out the meal, which gladly had only started sizzling by the edges.

_Yes, a **very** imperfectly perfect Christmas indeed. _

She almost jumps out of her skin once she feels arms wrapping around her from behind, but soon eases against Jaime’s body mapping hers with his.

This should be all kinds of strange, all kinds of unfamiliar – in fact it _is_ – but it feels so comfortable, so familiar, as though this embrace was one they already got lost in for years, as though this _Christmas mess_ was one they lived through a hundred times already, even though it’s completely new, uncharted territory.

“Yeah, well, I think I lost my appetite,” Brienne snorts, pushing some of the too badly burned beans aside with the fork. “I had enough hot chocolate for three people anyway.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Jaime mutters into the nape of her neck, making the fine hairs there stand up straight. “Because I seem to have appetite for _quite_ some different things.”

“ _Seriously_? You are no five minutes into my home and…,” Brienne argues, but Jaime shuts her up with a deep, passionate kiss. “I’ve spent hours fantasizing about that while suffering through Lannister Christmas, as a brave little soldier. So yes, I am _starving_.”

“And I have no say in that, you think?” she snorts. He pulls her closer to him, bringing Brienne to yelp involuntarily. “I can convince you in _no_ time.”

“I _actually_ wanted to watch a DVD. I always watch _Old Nan’s Winter Tales_ on Christmas _eve_. I love the one on Ser Galladon of Morne,” Brienne argues with a smile.

“It’s a _DVD_ , you say?” he asks, demands.

“Yes?”

“That means you can play it _any_ time during the evening. That, in turn means, that we can bloody well satisfy some of my appetite before moving on to that bit, no?” Jaime argues, only to lean in closer to her ear and whisper. “And in any case, if you made me watch that thing with you just now, you wouldn’t see the end of it – because I would keep _distracting_ you the whole time. Like this, you get both.”

“You mean you won’t distract me after it anyway?” Brienne asks, surprised at the ease the comment comes with, how she doesn’t feel like a stupid teenager anymore, but like a woman, a woman being loved, wanted, desired.

“I can’t make any promises, but… I guess I will be _pretty_ exhausted once I am done with you, so that may give you at least a bit of a breather to get to the point where Ser Galladon unsheathes the Just Maid maybe the second time? Who knows, maybe even the third? Or maybe… only just the first.”

“I may warn you, though, if you start linking the Just Maid and unsheathing swords in any way to what you are so eager to do – we will watch the whole damn thing,” Brienne warns him. “Twice.”

“You steal my best lines, wench.”

“I just save us both the shame.”

“Fine, truce, alright?” he bargains.

“ _Truce_? Yeah, let’s have a truce.”

And before she can even go on talking for just one more second, Jaime’s lips are back on hers, burning with desire, but still with a bit of a smirk – because this is still fun, it’s easy, it’s comfortable, and Brienne just melts into his arms like fresh snow does once the first beams of the sun caress it as morning rises.

If that is her newly found Christmas reality, Brienne can live with that, too, actually, can very well live with it indeed. It’s nothing compared to Tarth’s village either, but that is truly because those things _cannot_ be compared.

Though inside Brienne’s mind, it may well be that those things can readily be _combined_.

However, soon enough, all those thoughts disappear from her mind, Jaime’s body hushing everything but her and him away from both their minds, realities, as though they were caught in a snow globe containing just themselves, stuck somewhere between rushes of white as they satisfy their appetite, and unceremoniously falling off the couch once they get a bit too much into it, only to lay next to each other laughing at the perfect imperfect moments piling up like the snow outside.

Only for Jaime to get on top of her to kiss her again to “carry on where we left off”, claiming her lips again, claiming her again, with all of his.

Stuck between the couch and the couch table, sliding over her self-knitted blanket with the Tarth sigil, the narrowest of places possible, allowing for no distance between them yet again, their bodies falling back in place, back into each other, two things becoming one, two people becoming one.

Only to lie in each other’s arms, sated, breathing hard, laughing once the ridiculousness of both of them on the floor, when there is a bedroom available, dawns on them, but finding themselves unable to care.

Only to get up at _some_ point, _far_ later, putting on an oversized sweater here, some button-up shirt there, and men sweatpants Brienne keeps buying because they are more comfortable to wear – and fit Jaime well enough.

Only to sit on the couch and listen to Old Nan telling the knightly tale of Galladon of Morne, holding each other close, wrapped in a blanket.

Only to lament about the poor acting skills of the man portraying Galladon because he holds the sword all wrong.

Only to then engage in talking about swords and swordfight.

Only to forget Old Nan and her tales to kiss again – and _more_.

Only fall asleep, wrapped around each other after some many, _many_ more.

Only to wake up under the crooked Christmas tree, never having made it to the bedroom, right under the Christmas lights blinking down on them, dancing over their heated skin, a bit of fake snow stuck in their hair from where Brienne spread it on the small stool she put the Christmas tree on, to make it look _more festive_.

“Good morning.”

“ _Good_ morning indeed,” Jaime hums. “Though I still hope we make it to bed at some point during the day. I think our backs would thank us.”

“True,” Brienne laughs.

Though to tell the truth, lying there is perhaps the most perfect thing she ever witnessed, to wake up in his arms, right under the Christmas tree, as though that was apparently her present now unwrapped, _their_ present, in fact.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Jaime grunts, leaning on his forearm to straighten up a bit. Brienne turns to him, hugging their shared blanket to her flat chest. She frowns once Jaime reaches blindly behind himself, to fish something out of a small paper bag with a Christmas tree painted on the side. He must have put it there while she was in the kitchen, taking the burned _Feast_ out of the oven.

Brienne is bound to turn on her back once he starts moving back, glancing up at what dangles from his hand now.

The wooden amulet she liked so much, but didn’t buy for herself, back at the Christmas fair.

The one with the carved tree and the falling star, with the small blue gemstone right in the star’s center, shining inexplicably bright in the Christmas lights above her head, as though it was the Crown Jewels at display in the _Red Keep Museum_ , dangling from a simple leather cord.

“I had some spare time after picking up my presents for Father and Tyrion, and then I remembered that I saw you ogling at that thing while waiting for the engraving on the other one getting done.”

“You remember that?” she asks, surprised, taken aback indeed.

“Why of course. My attention was on you the whole time anyway, upon reflection,” Jaime says with an easy smile.

Brienne reaches out to take the medallion from him, holding it in her hands as though it was as fragile as glass, and as valuable as a sapphire.

Because that is what it is for her.

“What do you think of the text I chose?” he asks. Brienne lifts the amulet to her eyes, flipping it around to see what is written in the back.

“ _Brienne, be my Christmas Valentine_ , really?” she snorts.

“I didn’t have as much time, and you have to cut me that bit of slack, had I had the engraving done after last night, the message likely would have been… better and deeper-reaching than that. Like this, I couldn’t just write down all of my feelings, could I? I didn’t even really have the words for it until I stood in your doorway.”

“Well, no more convincing needed, huh?” Brienne laughs, gesturing at them. “But thank you, it’s wonderful.”

No, no more convincing needed in fact, because what he _said_ is what matters, not so much what was engraved on a Christmas market as part of **_King’s Landing’s Winter Wonderland_** , which was apparently more wonder than Brienne gave it credit for when she headed there in the first place.

“ _Wonderful_ , really? Even if it’s just _Made in Meereen_?” Jaime grins.

“ _Absolutely_ wonderful,” Brienne insists. “And who checks on where it’s made anyway?”

“True again, no one ever does,” Jaime agrees, before gesturing at it. “May I?”

Brienne blinks as he takes it from her again, lifting her head slightly to slip the leather cord over her head, the wood tapping against the naked skin of her chest, and yet again, Brienne feels as though something belonged there all along, and suddenly it came to her, and fell back in place.

Jaime leans down to kiss her, then, softly, gently, as though it was a feather’s touch.

“Seems like we had a rather good Christmas after all,” Jaime says once he pulls away, leaning his forehead against hers, towering above her, resting on his forearms. “The first good Christmas… I ever had, which makes it… the best I had up to this point, therefore. For which I still owe you my thanks.”

Because she introduced warmth, comfort, and togetherness to the time of the year Jaime had grown up to believe was nothing but empty phrases and envelopes without decoration.

Because she brought light to a darkness he didn’t know this holiday apparently spread within him.

Because being with her makes him feel at home within another person, which is… perhaps the best feeling Jaime ever had in his entire life, against the odds of being so sudden, of being there just like that, without prelude, without set-up. But now it is, he can feel it moving with every beat of his heart.

That so long he is with her, loneliness will be a concept alien to his being.

That so long he holds her close to him, the warmth will dance over his skin.

That so long he holds her gaze, he can see the love in her big blue eyes, the sudden love that he may have caught some many times ago, but did not, clouded by office talk and arguing over who is right and wrong.

Yes, most definitely the best Christmas – _up until now_.

Because that is the thing: Lying in her arms, kissing her – it’s all small promises, of a future, the next day, the next holiday, next Christmas.

_Who knows?_

Maybe a year from now, he will proudly introduce her to Father – with the satisfaction of introducing her as his girlfriend… _maybe more_ … and give a damn on what the old man will have to say, though Jaime reckons, judging by Tywin’s insistence on grandchildren to continue the family legacy, he’ll be fine so long Jaime finally moves on to a more settled life and gives him the heirs the Lannister Empire needs.

Though of course… he will have to inform Brienne about that before.

… Though she will likely slap him for it a few times, until she grows used to the idea.

Or maybe, _just_ maybe, a year from now, he will walk down the streets of the fishing village on Tarth, marveling at the lights, the music and songs, stories and shared food, children skipping between them as Jaime holds her hand in his and he draws her in for a kiss right under a lantern because he can, and because she will return all of his kisses with the same need, desire, and love.

When Jaime looks at her now, lying beneath him, glancing up at him with her wonderfully blue eyes that he could just get lost in, he sees the promise left unspoken, but no less real.

The promise of a future forming.

Between them.

A future that is just about them.

“Merry Christmas, Brienne.”

“Merry Christmas, Jaime.”

They kiss, they laugh, hold each other close, allowing no distance between them, getting lost in each other’s warmth, each other’s gazes, each other’s glow, as a snowstorm drifts up and down, back and forth and back again before the frozen windows of Brienne’s apartment, sending the blotches of white dancing endlessly, swallowing all sound, swallowing up the outside world entire.

To leave them a blissful day in their own, self-crafted snow globe full of moments, big and small, perfectly imperfect and imperfectly perfect, hushed, loud, _very_ loud at times, watching movies, huddling under the covers, under the sheets, drinking hot chocolate from a shared mug, laughing, telling stories, kissing, kissing more, _much_ more, dozing off every now and then in each other’s embrace, creating familiarity where there once was unfamiliarity, closing all gaps between them, mapping each other over and over, exploring each other, getting used to each other, finding symmetry within difference, and cherishing the differences, the things that make them singular.

Finding the other within oneself, finding each other and holding on, with no intention of ever letting go again.

Because some promises ought to be kept. And both are intent on keeping their vows to each other.

Of a distant future suddenly so very close. And a close future that will hopefully reach far, far into the future lying in the distance, covered in snow and ice about to melt.

 

**The End**


End file.
